


The Dead of Night

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean and Mental Health Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Monsters, SPN Cinema Genre Challenge, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Undead, nightbreed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8436370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: ‘It’s a place where monsters go; where you can be forgiven.’Dean Winchester regularly dreams of Midian. Diagnosed with schizophrenia in his teens, he decides he’s in need of Midian’s salvation when his psychiatrist believes him responsible for a series of murders. Sam believes in his brother’s innocence, and will stop at nothing to get his brother back. The toughest part is working out who the actual monsters are…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me and Nightbreed have _serious_ history. I was 11 when I first saw the movie and have remained obsessed with it ever since. When I saw the comm spn_cinema it was the obvious choice for me because a SPN version has always been begging to be written. I've gone for a pretty straight re-telling so I hope I’ve done the movie justice. There are some lines of dialogue taken from the film because they just felt so iconic that I couldn’t change them. I _had_ to change the ending though to the way the movie _should_ have ended. 
> 
> Thank you as always to the amazing thruterryseyes for the beta (owing to the usual last-minute writing/faffing, any remaining errors are mine) and to lightthesparks for getting on Team Nightbreed and producing her fabulous art. Her masterpost is [HERE](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/117248.html)

  


_A monster lies in wait in me, A stew of wounds and misery. But fiercer still in life and limb, The me that lies in wait in him._

\- Clive Barker, The Nightbreed Chronicles

**The Dead of Night**

**Chapter One**

DEAN

_I'm not gonna die today._

He studies his reflection in the mirror and wonders if it will help to say it out loud. Today will be a good day, he thinks, because the wheedling incessant whine that demands that he forfeits his life is quieter. It's not always like this. Some days it rants and rants to the point where he aches to bash his head against the nearest wall until either it stops or he does. Days like that, he tries not to think what a relief it would be for it all to be over. 

Because there's Sam, his little, well, not so little now, brother.

Sam is what keeps him connected to this life. Sometimes his brother's love is like a life belt, thrown to a drowning man and he thanks every deity he can think of that Sam will do that for him. Other times, _darker_ times, that devotion is like a noose, simultaneously choking him and tethering him to a life he doesn't want.

It's been this way as long as he can remember.

As wearing as this existence is, he owes it to Sam to hold on; after all, his brother's the only one who hasn't got bored of him and all his shit yet. His mom died when he was four - a fire in their home - but he can't help but wonder if she knew what was coming and got out early. Their dad stuck around longer, but he drank, which made him an absent father for a lot of the time and shitty father when he was there. Dean still isn't sure which was worse.

In John's absence, he did his best to raise Sam, but his own demons made the job almost impossible. Not that Sam was a difficult child – it was a good job really, since he's ashamed to admit that the roles were reversed more than he would ever have liked.

During his adolescence, his demons were given a name: paranoid schizophrenia with auditory and visual hallucinations. He was medicated from that moment, sometimes successfully, other times the drugs were worse than the symptoms they were supposed to keep at bay. At its worst, he was institutionalised; he hated those places - who wouldn't? - but he stayed as long as he could each time in the hope that Sam would be getting a stab at a normal life while he was gone.

Then John died and he reached the threshold of adulthood, where the mental health services weren't so kind: prison now the institution of choice even if it was difficult to pinpoint exactly what crime he'd committed. So he stays in therapy, takes his meds and tries to keep out of trouble.

The face in the mirror stares back at him. Today, presumably because it's a good day, the face feels like it belongs to him. When he's unwell, he may as well be looking at a stranger, his features not the ones he remembers. His nose is too long, his eyes set too close together. His hair was never this colour. When did he get freckles?

Having completed his inspection, he turns and immediately notices the sticky note Sam has left on the front door. _Don't forget your appointment. Remember to tell him about the dreams._

He won't forget. He feels like a shitty human being most of the time so he won't risk disappointing either Sam or Dr. Alastair and inviting more self-loathing. He'll make sure he's there in plenty of time, even though the psychiatrist's secretary will frown disapprovingly when he arrives over half an hour before he's due.

OoOoO

He's been a patient of Dr. Alastair's for over three years now. His last doctor stuck it out for two years before washing his hands of his worthless ass and transferring him to a colleague. He likes Dr. Alastair, even if he finds him a little intimidating at times. His voice has a cadence, a gentle musicality that he's never heard in another living soul. The man is tall and willowy, but his suits are always immaculate and give the illusion of sharp edges. Dean's seen those edges for himself - the doctor never tolerates self-pity or disobedience in any form.

Today the honeyed voice pulls him from his thoughts. It's time to go. He stands quickly and makes his way into the doctor's office, the gaze of the secretary crawling across his scalp as he walks. The door clicks shut behind him.

"Have a seat, Dean."

Dr. Alastair is always unfailingly polite. He waits for the doctor to take the seat across from the couch, but, unusually, the other man goes and sits down behind his desk. _Distance_ , Dean thinks. He understands all about needing distance. What he doesn't understand is why Dr. Alastair is the one who needs it.

"How are you doing today, Dean?"

He thinks, then nods. "I'm okay. I've had a good few days."

Normally, this would generate some positive feedback, an enquiry as to what has brought about the change. Today, there's nothing.

"Sam says I've got to tell you that I'm still having the dreams."

Alastair nods minutely. "Of monsters? And Midian?"

"Yeah."

"This place, this _Midian_... You've said before that it's a place of forgiveness. So tell me, Dean, in your dreams, when you're being taken away to Midian, what sins are you seeking forgiveness for?"

The psychiatrist has asked him this question before. He didn't know the answer then and he doesn't know it now.

"I... I don't remember." He glances up, expecting disappointment, but Dr. Alastair's expression is telegraphing worry.

"Doc?" he asks, nerves jangling like the keys in his pocket. "Everything okay?"

He can't recall a single time their roles have reversed like this before, but he's expecting the psychiatrist to take back the reins with whatever he will say next. If anything, the wagon veers further out of control. 

"Dean... I don't know how to say this, but I think we've got a problem."

"A... a problem?"

Dr. Alastair sighs and smoothes a hand across his hair. The gesture is a nervous one. It doesn't suit him at all. Dean shifts in his seat, uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat.

"The police came to me a few days ago," the psychiatrist announces, looking similarly uncomfortable. "They're investigating some crimes. They brought me some photographs, wanted to know if I had any patients who might be capable of doing what's _in_ the photographs." 

"What were the crimes?" he asks, his voice small. The room suddenly seems too bright, the traffic noise outside too loud. He waits for the other man to speak, even though he knows the answer already.

"Murders, Dean."

"How many?"

Alastair hesitates. "Five that they know are linked. Another four that they believe are also by the same person."

" _Nine people?_ " he whispers to himself. "But I didn't kill anyone. I've _never_ killed anyone." He chances a glance up at the good doctor. He's expecting to see reassurance in response to his denial - he _needs_ it because he's well aware that he's an unreliable narrator in his own story - but he's greeted with grief.

"I thought so, too. You've talked about many things in our sessions; some of them have been very dark. You've always had a tendency towards violence." Dr. Alastair falters, shaking his head. "I thought they were just fantasies, I really did. But after the police came to me, I read their files and when I went back and listened to the recordings of some of our sessions, I realised there are facts that can't be ignored."

He watches as the psychiatrist reaches behind his desk for his briefcase. Already the world is tilting on its axis and it's all he can do not to grab the arms of the couch and hold on for dear life. He looks down and concentrates on his breathing until he realises that Dr. Alastair is waiting for him. The doctor sits grim-faced, his hand resting on a small pile of photographs atop his desk.

"Dean. I warn you these aren't pleasant, but I want you to take a look, see if anything looks familiar." Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Alastair isn't done. "I'm sorry, Dean. Truly I am, but I need you to do this. I'm still hoping to God that I'm wrong, but..." 

The unfinished sentence says it all. He nods, face numb, and climbs to his feet. His legs already feel unsteady as he crosses the room, and he hasn't seen anything yet. 

"Jesus Christ." 

If he thought Alastair would ease him in, he was wrong. The image is a crime scene so violent and visceral that for a moment he thinks he might be sick. He grips the edge of the desk until his knuckles start to blanch.

"Another," Alastair says. It's not a question. If possible, the next scene is worse. Whoever has done this has cut down people indiscriminately. _Did I do this?_ He realises Alastair is speaking.

"When you've been under hypnosis, you've talked about killing. You've told me about the things you do in your dreams-"

"But they're just _dreams_."

"I thought so too, but I've gone back over the recordings. Mostly it's just nonsense - or so I thought before I knew about the murders - but I realise now that in amongst it there are details." The psychiatrist stabs a finger onto the pile of photographs. "Details of _these_ crimes, Dean."

Finally relinquishing his grip, he pushes away from the desk. The room, normally so bright and airy, feels stark and threatening. His safe space is crumbling, the rate of the destruction alarming. How can he be responsible for something he has no memory of?

"The recordings," he blurts out, a panicked, desperate attempt to steer the bus away from the edge. "Can, can I listen to them?"

Maybe if he hears them, he can make sense of it all. Dr. Alastair shakes his head.

"I've destroyed them."

"What? _Why?_ "

The psychiatrist sighs and tents his fingers. He looks weary. 

"I'll be honest, Dean. If it's true, this doesn't reflect well on me, either. You've been my patient for a number of years now. My reputation would be in ruins."

"I'm sorry," he replies, even though he's not completely sure what he's apologising for. It doesn't _feel_ right and yet Dr. Alastair says it must be so. This man saved him from himself, built a tower on the ruins of his life, so why would the very same man take a sledgehammer to the foundations unless he was sure?

"I am too," the psychiatrist says. He sounds genuinely upset. "I really thought I was helping you, Dean. I thought you were getting better."

_I did too_ , he thinks. _Proves I'm a fucking idiot._

"I feel like I've failed you," Alastair continues, "now I can see I was naive about the severity of your illness and what I could do for you. That's on me, Dean."

"I'm sorry," he says again. He's ruined countless lives, so one more shouldn't matter, but it does, because Dr. Alastair has worked so hard to try and help him. "Have... have you called the police?"

"No. I wanted to be sure first. I wanted... I hoped that when I saw you and we talked, there'd be something that made me realise it couldn't possibly be you."

"But there isn't?"

"I wouldn't have risked showing you those photos if I was sure it wasn't you." Dr. Alastair sighs. "Conversely, you're my patient and I care about your well-being, Dean. Mentally, you're extremely fragile and I know that if I hand you over to the police now, you'll agree with whatever they say you did. I couldn't live with myself if you're innocent and I've allowed you to confess to crimes you didn't commit."

It's impossible to not be confused by Alastair's apparent changes of heart. _He wants to believe I'm innocent, but deep down he knows I'm not._ He's never thought of the doctor as an idiot, but he does so now. He pities the man for trying to find a thread of goodness in him that was never there.

"So what do I do now?"

"I want us to have a couple more sessions together, so I can really be sure. Only then, we'll go to the police."

A thought occurs to him. "But what if I'm dangerous? What if I hurt more people without even realising?"

Through his rising panic he sees the psychiatrist lifting a vial of meds out of his desk drawer. Alastair holds the small brown vial out to him.

"I want you to take these."

"What are they?" he asks, coming forward to claim the meds.

"It's Lithium. They won't interfere with your other meds and they'll help keep you calm. I've cleared my diary so we can do sessions tomorrow and the day after. By then, we should be certain either way. Two days, that's all I ask."

If he's a murderer, they should be locking him up _this instant_ , but he owes it to the doctor to do it his way. He pops open the bottle and palms one of the pills. 

"Two days," he agrees, before he dry swallows the first dose and heads for the door.

OoOoO

The drugs are strong. 

At first he thinks he must be taking too many at once, but the bottle assures him he's not. To find out he's not in danger of overdosing on them is something of a confusing relief. From the first dose he feels disconnected from reality. He appreciates Dr. Alastair giving him the meds, even though the purple-tinted haze doesn't allow him to fulfil the doctor's request about deciding what he's going to do next.

That evening Sam comments that he's quiet. He asks how the session went with Dr. Alastair. It's not an unusual request - Sam's asked after his progress ever since he went into therapy as a teenager - but to answer in any capacity is impossible. How can he tell his baby brother a truth that he can barely comprehend himself? How can he say ' _I'm a monster, Sam. I get my kicks out of murdering people, but I'm so fucked up I don't even remember doing it'?_

"Was okay," he grinds out when he realises Sam is still waiting for an answer.

Sam studies him for a few moments longer, before turning his gaze back to the television. His expression is troubled, but fortunately, he doesn't push. Sam's learned to wait; that anything worth sharing will come out in its own time. The thought that Sam has that trust in him once was comforting, a layer of armour against dark times and negative thoughts. 

Now, it just makes him feel sick.

OoOoO

Thankfully, Sam leaves early the next morning. He grabs some coffee, but it's tasteless. He takes more of the meds and can feel the growing cocoon around him, separating him both externally from the world and internally from himself. With this cushion from his emotions, he tries to think about yesterday's session, but the memories are distorted. He closes his eyes, but the images of eviscerated corpses fill the empty. He presses on the closed lids so hard that he sees stars, only for them to fade back into the horror Dr. Alastair showed him less than twenty-four hours ago. 

He tries to tell himself that he's remembering them wrong, that his mind is supplying detail that was never there. Isn't that the very nature of his condition, that fiction and reality have no clear boundaries? But he knows they really were as awful as he's remembering them. His hands shake. He's no stranger to violence, but he'd truly believed his target had only ever been himself. Even Sam, a constant presence in his troubled life, had only been hurt on one occasion.

He attends the session with Dr. Alastair, but between the hypnosis and the meds he remembers nothing afterwards. What he _does_ remember is the psychiatrist's face at the end - that despite the other man's insistence that they do one more session, just in case, he's already certain of the worst. 

He returns home, relieved that Sam isn't back. There's no way he can hide this from his brother any longer - their lives are so deeply intertwined that Sam will just _know_ that something is now seriously amiss. The thought of his brother's devastation cements his decision about what he will do next. He takes more of the meds, then tries to write a note, but gives up when he realises that he has no idea what he should say. He locks up their apartment and leaves the keys in their mailbox. 

Darkness is falling when he steps outside and just... walks. The meds give everything an unreal quality and he stands for a moment, transfixed, watching the traffic whiz by. Their tail lights leave a streak of red in the air that makes him think of blood and knife wounds and all the terrible damage he has inflicted on innocent people. 

'I'm sorry, Sam,' he says, even though he's not sure if he actually says the words out loud or just thinks them in his head. His brother's life is tainted now - he will always be the man with a monster for an older brother - but at least he can stop the stain from spreading.

OoOoO

Death is far too noisy. And bright. He feels hands on him and goes to push them away, but stronger hands overpower him and he hasn't got the energy to fight them off. They speak to him too: _Relax, buddy. You're gonna be okay. Just take it easy, won't you?_

"Where am I?" a voice says before he realises it's his own.

"You're in the hospital."

"What happened?" His eyes are starting to focus. The speaker is wearing a white coat and a grim, slightly irritated expression.

"For reasons only known to you, you decided to step out in front of semi. Luckily, the driver managed to swerve in time or you'd be looking at much worse than a few bumps and bruises."

As the doctor is speaking, a nurse approaches with some paperwork. They turn away from him, a poor illusion of privacy, and have a quiet conversation, obviously about him, but he isn't interested enough to try and follow what they're saying. The nurse takes her leave, and the annoyed-looking doctor is back.

"We ran your bloods while you were out. What have you been taking tonight, Dean?"

"Lithium." They must have found the vial in his jacket pocket when they were looking for his ID, so he's not entirely sure why they're asking. The doctor studies him doubtfully.

"That wasn't lithium."

He gently fingers the cut on his temple and winces. None of this is making sense. "What was it then?"

"I don't know," the doctor replies, "my best guess is some lab quality hallucinogen." The doctor smiles, but it's razor-sharp and not a bit sympathetic. "You're on what we'd call a bad trip, ol' buddy."

OoOoO

With non-serious injuries they leave him alone to sleep off the effects of the drugs even though he's too wired to get any rest. They've probably called Sam by now who will be on his way here, worry etching deeper lines into his features with every passing crisis. His fault.

"Why won't you come?"

He turns, but there's no one in the room. The voice is probably in his head so he closes his eyes and concentrates on what the hell he's going to tell Sam about why he ended up here.

"You've got to take me! Why won't you come? I'm begging you..."

He opens his eyes again. The voice is more insistent now, and louder. It doesn't sound the same as the voices that usually occupy his head, which leads him to suspect that it's not imagined, after all.

"Why won't you take me? I'm worthy, I swear."

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gingerly tests whether they're going to hold his weight. Satisfied that he's not going to collapse, he follows the sound of the distressed voice, into the room beyond. There's only one person in here; a man just a little shorter than himself who has flattened himself to the window as he continues to beg. Dean realises that the man hasn't heard him - he could turn and leave, but he's too curious.

"Who are you waiting for?"

The man jumps and spins around. He approaches so suddenly Dean is expecting a punch to follow. The man has the brightest blue eyes he's ever seen on another person and his expression is hopeful for a split second, before it morphs into disgust.

"Go away! They won't come while you're here!"

"Who?"

"No one!" the guy snaps before returning to his spot by the window. He rests his fists and forehead on the glass and begins to mutter. It's impossible to catch everything he's saying, but one word stands out as if it's been yelled through a megaphone.

_Midian_

"What was that about Midian?" he blurts out, aware of his heart starting to beat a little faster. 

The man turns and eyes him sharply. Assessing. He starts to smile but the expression is cold and unfriendly.

"What do _you_ know about Midian?"

The challenge has been issued. Piercing blue daggers await the response. He doesn't know why, but he's certain the wrong answer will get him killed, even though he has no idea if this man is dangerous. He juts his chin out, defiant. He's got a couple of inches and a few extra pounds on the guy if it comes to it. Thing is, he doesn't have any information, not really. Up until a couple of minutes ago, Midian was a place that existed only in his dreams.

"It's a place where monsters go; where you can be forgiven." He waits anxiously to see if this will be enough.

"True, but they only take you if you're worthy." The cold smile becomes a maniacal grin. "You know what they do to those who _aren't_ worthy?"

The stranger draws a line across his throat with entirely too much pleasure. He ignores the implication of unworthiness, because his head is still fixated on the idea that Midian is _real_.

"Can you tell me how to get there?"

Those bright blue eyes narrow with suspicion as the man works through something in his head before his expression suddenly brightens.

"They sent you."

"What?" 

"They sent you to take me." The stranger grins and nods, evidently enthused by his own idea. "I said to myself 'Jimmy, you nearly made a real fool of yourself here.' This is a test, isn't it?"

The guy's completely got the wrong end of the stick, but it's an opportunity that he seizes. "Yes. But I can't take you to Midian unless you prove to me that you know where it is."

The man - Jimmy - grows serious and for a split second, he almost feels bad about the deception. Jimmy grips his arm and pulls him toward the window as if Midian could be seen from here. Maybe it can. 

"Okay, well, you go north of Omaha, west of Peace River, near Shere Neck and north of Dwyer."

The directions are recited with a certainty that says Jimmy has committed this information to heart. He listens and once he's certain he can remember those place names in order to find it on his own, he pats Jimmy on the chest and turns to walk away.

"Wait!" the other man yells. "I know I've got to show you first."

Fuck knows why he stops, but he does. When he turns around, Jimmy has shucked out of his shirt and is pushing something that flashes silver onto each of thumbs. Belatedly, he realises that they're blades. 

"Jimmy's not the only name I go by, see? Really... really my name is Castiel. And I'm an angel, but I fell, see? Humans were my downfall so I belong with the monsters, but I know you won't believe me until I show you my wings."

He's about to ask what the other man means, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he's transfixed as Jimmy reaches around his body first with his left hand, then with his right. Only the wince of pain tells him Jimmy is using the blades. They quickly reappear and he discards them. They clatter on the tiled floor, blood spattering on the stark white surface.

"What are you...?"

"You need to see!" Jimmy yells as he reaches his left hand around again and starts to... pull. 

If flesh tearing makes a sound, it's thankfully drowned out by the screams of the man who drops to his knees as he's flaying himself alive. His left hand reappears with a bloody chunk of skin, which he drops to the floor to start on the other side. Dean realises that there's screaming now behind him as a nurse has entered the room and stumbled upon this scene of chaos. The nurse's screams bring others, hands grab him roughly as hospital personnel spill into the room.

"What have you done?" someone asks him, even though they don't wait for an answer. The question propels him from his stupor and he uses the chaos to slip out of the room. The last thing he sees is a collection of nurses and security staff trying to stop Jimmy from doing any more damage to himself. The last thing he hears are Jimmy's howls of outages that he can't finish what he's started. 

What he knows for certain is that he can't hang around, so he runs. As he reaches the exit something compels him to stop and look back. It's the prickle of paranoia, and he realises that he has no idea what he'll do if he turns and sees Sam, but he needs to know if his brother is here. It's not Sam, but his instincts weren't completely wide of the mark, because at the other end of the corridor is Dr. Alastair, flanked by some cops, although only the former has noticed him. Frozen in time, they stare at each other until the need to escape wins out.

He disappears into the night before he can find out if any of them are going to follow him.

OoOoO

It takes him the best part of a day to reach Midian.

He hitches his way without incident - impressive considering he's never actually been in a vehicle with anyone other than Sam. He figures it's possibly the residual effects of the psychotropic drugs he was given keeping his anxiety at bay, but ultimately, he knows it's something else. Having a goal, a location, a _purpose_ , is driving him on, giving him a determination he's not sure he's ever had before. 

Maybe destiny too is conspiring to help him. Why else would strangers agree to carry a bruised and battered nobody in the direction of a place no one's heard of? Fortunately, none of them want to talk, sparing him from any lies or awkward explanations. 

The last trucker he rides with tells him he's heard of Midian, which is a surprise. He's contemplating asking for more information when the guy adds, "But there ain't nothin' there anymore 'cept that big ugly graveyard. You got someone buried there?"

"Yeah," he replies, but doesn't elaborate and fortunately the guy doesn't ask any more questions. He tells himself maybe the old bastard is wrong. Maybe he doesn't know shit. But the creeping sense that he's on a fool's errand grows stronger with every passing mile. _Maybe this is what I deserve_ , he thinks. _I'm a murderer; I shouldn't get what I'm looking for._

Dusk is falling as the semi comes to a stop in the middle of nowhere. A quick glance out of the front and side windows tells him there's nothing to see.

"I can't take you right to Midian," the trucker says, gesturing to a turning that's little more than a track. "The road ain't good enough. You sure you wanna get out here, son? I'm headin' onto Sioux City, I don't mind droppin' you there."

Despite the prospect of being abandoned in a desolate wasteland, he reaches for the door handle.

"I'm good here," he announces wearily. "Thanks for the ride."

He watches the truck pull away, the dust eventually settling again. The night encroaches quickly. He's not wearing a watch, but he estimates that he's been walking for about an hour before he sees the first houses of the town. Darkness has fallen by now. There are stars overhead, but the truth that dawns on him is inescapable as he realises that aside from those bright dots in the sky, the inky blackness is unbroken. There's not a single light on in the town and no lights means no people.

"They've all gone," he says into the silence, the last vestiges of his hope claimed by the emptiness. He sinks to the ground, head in his hands. "They've all gone."

Even Midian has forsaken him.

He thinks of Sam for the first time that day. His brother must know by now all the terrible things he's done. Sam, who always pushed him go try and find hope and happiness despite the world telling him he was damaged and no good must now be accepting that all his efforts were for nought and that the world was right to have no faith in him.

How fucked up that he's more broken up over devastating his brother than the many innocent lives he's taken. Surely _that_ is the marker of a monster?

He knows he needs to decide what to do next, both immediately and in the near future, but his thoughts are like tiny darting creatures, too fast to catch hold of any one of them to examine it closely and decide if it'll be a help or a hindrance. The night isn't particularly cold, but it would make sense to seek shelter in the abandoned town, maybe even find food too. 

He's about to get up when he remembers the trucker's words. He'd said Midian was gone, but that the cemetery remained. Could it be _there_ that he needs to go? The more he considers it, the more likely it seems - after all, where better for monsters to live than in the company of the dead?

The idea gives fuel to his battered body. On his feet once more, he makes his way through the deserted streets. He listens in case he's mistaken about the town being abandoned, but there's nothing to contradict his earlier assumption.

Beyond the town the lands slopes downwards. At first he thinks there's nothing to see here either until his eyes find something out there in the darkness.

"What the fuck...?" he mutters to himself.

In the distance, with the mountains and towering pines standing sentinel, the grassy clearing is interrupted by a high-walled area he estimates to be the size of a couple of football fields. Beyond the wall, he can make out dark shapes rising into the sky, irregular in position and height. 

It strikes him that the cemetery doesn't fit with what he's seen of Midian. Even at its most prosperous, the town probably only ever had a couple hundred residents so why is the graveyard so large? 

The waist-high grasses sway in the slight breeze as he passes. Down here, the walls are higher than he originally thought; far too high to scale despite his height. He heads around to the imposing wrought iron gates. One touch tells him they're rusting badly and for moment he thinks he's not actually going to be able to gain entry, but he's not come this far to give up now. If Midian can offer him ... _absolution_ , then he needs to see for himself. 

It takes all his body weight, but eventually he's able to push one of the gates open enough to squeeze through. As he takes a moment to catch his breath, he studies the terrain in front of him. The cemetery has a central avenue, a main artery serving the many branches between the rows of tombs. His first impression is the people buried in Midian must have been seriously rich because some of the monuments are enormous. There are marble angels, hands raised in supplication, jostling for space amongst the crosses and other religious symbolism.

He wanders for what seems like an age. Up and down the rows past crypts and family mausoleums. Some of the routes are almost impassable, the graveyard is so overgrown. It's clear no one is tending to this place and the lack of fresh flowers or other tributes indicates to him that no one visits either. Like the town, this place is deserted.

This new failure saps the last of his strength. Desperate and broken, he slumps to the ground, his back resting against one of the tombs. It's not long before he falls into an empty, dreamless sleep.

OoOoO 

When he comes to, it's still dark. At first he can't understand why he's suddenly awake again until he hears the sound of movement down one of the avenues to his left. He scrambles to his feet quickly, back still pressed against the cold concrete as he tries to work out whether the sound means danger. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, because _of course_ it's danger. What else would it be?

With the noise on his left, he starts to back away, hoping that he's not moving toward a dead end. He never finds out as an arm snakes around his middle, with another quickly following, this time bringing a knife to his throat.

"Don't move," the presence behind him growls. Southern drawl, he notes absently. The blade punctuates the stranger's words. He swallows and the weapon nicks the soft skin of his neck.

"Well, well, what have we here?" 

A second voice floats from the shadows. No gliding vowels this time, but the tone is mocking. Seconds later, a man emerges. He's tall with skin like the darkness that surrounds him, beautifully attired in a three-piece suit that looks expensive, if not a little old-fashioned. The newcomer raises one hand and reveals long, pointed fingernails.

"Are you from Midian?" he manages to ask despite the knife nicking his throat with every movement.

"Maybe," the man replies. "The interesting thing is, you're _not_."

"You're wrong. I've killed people, _nine_ people. I came here because I belong with you."

"You think you're a monster?" The mocking tone is back. "I don't know where you got that idea from, but you're sadly mistaken."

The man steps toward him and presses two fingers to the exposed skin of his neck. He can only watch, breath held, as those fingers travel up to the man's face, where he then inhales the scent.

"Definitely not a monster." The man's expression hints at mixture of amusement and pity. "Whoever said you were a killer lied."

He's processing this, his brain shouting _no, no, no_ , because why would Dr. Alastair lie to him? Then he remembers the meds - _not lithium_ \- the doctor had said and it doesn't seem quite as ridiculous. What it does mean still eludes him while his life is in such danger. The man is talking again, all traces of amusement now gone, replaced with a hunger that is infinitely more terrifying.

"The thing is, if you're _not_ a monster, it means that you're meat."

"No." Southern Drawl is back. He'd almost forgotten he was there, even with the knife at his throat. "If we eat him we break the law."

Laughter now. "Benny, laws are made to be broken. Who's going to miss him if the world already believes that he's a killer?"

"But we shouldn't."

"More for me then," comes the reply, but the words sound different, like the mouth that's speaking them has subtly changed somehow. The man steps forward again, the proximity allowing him to see that he hasn't imagined it.

The man's teeth are now two rows of wicked-looking needles. He has a second to contemplate how much they'd probably hurt before he gets to find out. They sink into his neck, cutting through skin and clothing in one vicious bite. The pain intensifies as the man pulls back, taking that chunk of flesh with him, which he chews and swallows, a look of pleasure on his face. 

Before the monster returns for more, the hands that were previously holding him prisoner shove him away roughly.

"Go!" Southern Drawl - _Benny_ \- urges him as he grabs for his companion to prevent more bloodshed. Dean glances back, able to see his other assailant for the first time. This man has startling blue eyes and the same vicious-looking teeth. "The gate's that way!"

Earlier, he could barely muster the energy to stay upright - now he moves at a speed he never knew he possessed. His hand is pressed to the wound as he runs. It's slick with blood and he wonders idly if he's going to bleed out even if he manages to get away from the monster pursuing him. 

"Leave him!" comes the shout, far too close for comfort. 

It's a relief when he rounds the corner and the gate is in sight, still ajar from where he came in earlier. He slips through the gap, not knowing if the men can, and will, follow. The animalistic roar of outrage and the cessation of running feet behind him tells him luck is on his side for once.

He glances back; the two men are stood at the gate looking outwards, although not at him. A low growl emerges from the throat of the dark-skinned man.

"Out there… Something natural," he hears him say before both suddenly take off back into the labyrinthine graveyard.

Whatever appears to have spooked Midian's monsters, it's raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Cautiously, he steps through the long grass, eyes darting around, mind going, _what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck_.

"Dean Winchester, put your hands in the air, now!"

As the voice booms, the clearing is suddenly flooded with light. In a semicircle there are six police cars, doors open, with twice as many cops, all training weapons on him. In the centre of this arrangement stands a dark-skinned man in a long, grey trench coat and beside him... Dr. Alastair.

"Dean!" the psychiatrist shouts. "Please, just do as they say!"

The doctor steps forward until the trench coated man grabs his arm. They exchange words, too quiet to hear at this distance, and then Dr. Alastair is allowed to proceed.

"Dean," he says in those honeyed tones as he approaches. His hands are out, a gesture of placation to soothe the savage beast. The man looks worried.

The relief at seeing a familiar face sweeps over him. He forgets the question mark over the meds and why Alastair would be so convinced of his guilt because this man has been his rock for so long. Alastair will make it right, just like always.

"I didn't do it," he blurts out, his voice wavering. His hand is still pressed to the wound, the blood loss making him lightheaded. "I didn't kill _anyone_."

Dr. Alastair studies him for a moment, his expression kind. "I know you didn't, Dean. We can talk to the cops, tell them they've got it wrong."

The tragedy, he'll realise later, is that he believes it. He's about to say something, grateful to have such a powerful ally, when Dr Alastair suddenly spins on his heel and yells, " _He's got a gun!_ "

The psychiatrist dives clear just as the first weapon is discharged. The cops are jittery - probably a combination of the darkness and the sinister backdrop - so once one of them fires, they all quickly follow suit. The first bullet hits his right thigh, the second gets him in the shoulder. Several of them go wide, but more of them don't. 

Eventually he's lifted off his feet. He crashes to the ground, air knocked from his lungs, never to return. His last thought is of Sam, _because of course it is_. 

OoOoO

When the guns fall silent and the smoke clears, the doctor and Agent Henriksen approach the broken body.

"I thought you said he had a gun," Henriksen says flatly.

"He reached into his jacket," Dr. Alastair answers, shaking his head, devastated.

The wind picks up suddenly, carrying a mournful sound from the direction of the cemetery. Henriksen looks up, needled by a sudden sense of being watched, before his attention returns to the body in the long grass. 

The sooner they're out of this fucking place, the better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

SAM

The first time he realised Dean was seriously sick, he was ten years old. 

He'd grown used to his brother's idiosyncrasies - 'Deanisms' their dad used to call them - but when Dean was fourteen, his previously amusing quirks disappeared beneath more worrying behaviours. At the time, his ten-year old self struggled to comprehend his brother's increasing distress; Dean said stuff that made no sense and thought terrible things about Mrs. Finstock across the hall, even though she had never shown them anything other than kindness.

Dean had eventually been taken away. ' _They're gonna try and make him better, kid_ ', his dad had said every time he'd asked, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, even though it was clear from John's expression that he didn't believe it. The Dean that was returned to them came with a complicated drug regimen and, eventually, the title of paranoid schizophrenic.

At ten, he wasn't familiar with the term, but one look at their dad told him two things: one, that it was bad, and two, that the bad was _forever_. Suddenly, it was like Dean was broken - like he was indelibly marked with something that meant he could never be a regular guy again. Their school demanded meetings, _assurances_ that Dean would not be a danger to anyone and John, half-mad with grief and inherently low on diplomacy at the best of times, responded to their enquiries with a resounding ' _go fuck yourself_ '.

Dean never returned to conventional schooling and scraped through his G.E.D a couple of years later. 

As protective as John might have seemed towards his eldest in those early terrible days, it didn't change the fact that he couldn't accept who Dean was either. When he was drunk, which was tragically often, he would talk about how much Dean looked like Mary. Before Dean's diagnosis, it was just something he said, the melancholy observation of a grieving widower. After, the words were always laced with bitterness - a suggestion that he had lost something pure and had been left with something tainted.

Only Sam continued to love his brother unconditionally, even when Dean and his dad were in complete agreement about the fact that he should be making something of his life, without the burden of his troubled family. He was determined to prove that he could do both - he got good grades and his future looked promising. Law school beckoned; scholarships and full rides. 

Then John had died and Dean's issues became solely his to deal with. Reluctantly, he'd come to accept that hard work and determination weren't going to be enough to keep his dream - and Dean - alive, so school had been sacrificed. So now, he pays the bills with a part time job as a filing clerk at a law firm, which feels a little like fate has a fucking warped sense of humour.

Dean had taken his decision to quit school particularly badly. He already felt like a failure without his inadequacies dragging Sam down too. It had been an uphill struggle to coax Dean away from his self-loathing and destructive behaviours, but with Dr. Alastair's help they had established a life that worked for them. There had been no incidents for months: no self-harm, no disappearances, no days where Dean just being alive by sun up the following morning could be counted as a momentous victory. 

Experience dictated that there would still be bumps in the road. When Dean returned home from his regular session with his psychiatrist and barely said two words, he could feel the onset of _something_ that gnawed at soul and sent his anxiety spiraling. He'd also learned not to push, so he'd set off for work the following morning, hoping that Dean would talk when he was ready.

When he gets out of work just after five thirty he heads straight home expecting to find his brother there. Aside from his appointments with Dr. Alastair, Dean rarely goes anywhere on his own, but the apartment is empty. He calls Dean's cell but it goes straight to voicemail. He tries to tell himself it's no big deal, but he's so attuned to his brother's moods and movements that the worry settles upon him and won't leave.

An hour later he's in danger of being crushed by the weight, so he does something he hasn't done in a long time, and calls Dr. Alastair. The doctor picks up on the fifth ring.

"Sam? Is everything okay?"

He breathes, instantly feeling calmer knowing that if they need to phone the cops, the psychiatrist will lend his weight to making them listen. 

"Sorry to have to call," he says, still scanning their apartment for any signs that Dean might have left a clue as to where he's gone. "But Dean's not here. I wondered if he was with you?"

"No, sorry. I saw him earlier today, but he left when our appointment was done."

Not good. "How did he seem? Was he upset about anything? It's been so long since he's gone anywhere without telling me first."

There's a slight pause before the doctor responds. "He was quiet... but there wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Have you reported him missing?"

"No, not yet." He knows he doesn't need to spell it out to Dean's doctor that he's hesitant to involve the cops because it could lead to some kind of involuntary commitment that Dean may not need. "He didn't say where he might be going?"

"I'm sorry, no. But if he calls me, I'll contact you straight away."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd be grateful if you'd let me know when you find him. I know I'm only his doctor, but I care about him and--" 

"Hey," Sam cuts in, "Dean and I appreciate everything you do for him, so of course I'll call."

"Thank you, Sam. It means a lot to hear you say that. I'm sure Dean will turn up soon."

He ends the call and tries Dean's cell once more, but it goes straight to voicemail again. He can't stay here, so he scribbles a quick note, leaves it propped up on the table and goes out into the night in search of his brother.

OoOoO

Over the next twenty-four hours, he visits all the places he and Dean go to. It's not an extensive list, given his brother's issues, but he tries everywhere in the hope that he'll find Dean in one of them. He's back at the apartment when he realises it's fruitless calling Dean's cell - he finds the device, switched off, tucked down the back of the sofa. Later on he finds his brother's keys in the mailbox and, after doing one final sweep of their neighbourhood in the early hours of the morning, he knows he's no other choice but to call the cops.

He's almost home when his cell starts to ring in his pocket. Hastily he grabs for it. _Please let it be Dean_. The caller ID says Dr. Alastair.

"Have you found him?" he says, skipping the greeting. 

The pause that follows tells him everything he needs, but doesn't want to know.

"Sam... I'm really sorry...."

OoOoO

Numb.

Ever since he'd come to truly understand what Dean's illness meant, he had harboured the fear that he might lose his brother too soon. He'd realised early on that Dean's vulnerable nature meant his role was one of protection - what he hadn't quite grasped at that stage was that it would mostly mean protecting Dean from himself.

This. _This_ , had never even entered the list of possibilities. Dean - the man who loved _The Three Stooges_ and delighted at the prospect of pie - on the run from the law who believed him guilty of the most appalling crimes. He'd be the first to agree that his brother was a damaged, deeply flawed individual, but he wasn't a killer. That much he was certain of.

Of course, all this information had come after the worst news; that Dean had been found in a town he'd never heard of and been shot dead while resisting arrest. Dr. Alastair had broken the news, his gentle voice wavering with emotion. He felt like he'd failed Dean. Sam had assured him that he hadn't.

Alastair had then apologetically given him the address of the county's morgue in Shere Neck. Sam had ended the call, promising he'd be there as soon as possible to identify his brother's body and take the first step in accepting that Dean was actually gone.

The numbness doesn't dissipate any as he drives. He thinks of Dean and tries to focus on the rare treasure that was better days, when they'd make plans, talk of road trips, visiting the Grand Canyon and the world's largest ball of twine. He loves - _loved_ \- Dean's infectious laugh and the way his brother would always try to make him smile when he'd had a bad day at work. 

The miles fall away. His happy recollections inevitably turn to darker ones, to his brother weeping in despair because something had happened - usually something insignificant to anyone without Dean's issues - but for his brother it had represented the end of hope. He thinks of his fear when Dean couldn't be coaxed from the darkness, that this was it and tomorrow the sun would rise on a world that Dean was no longer part of.

That day is today. 

He arrives in Shere Neck and immediately hates the place. It's far busier than he'd expected it to be until he realises that the rodeo is in town. As a result, there's something of a party atmosphere; bunting is flying above the main street and every business is advertising its rodeo-related special offers. Everything is completely at odds with how he feels at that moment as he follows the directions to the county morgue and prepares to see his brother's bullet-riddled body and meet with the men who put him there.

Alastair greets him in the parking lot with a somber expression. The doctor is wearing one of his customary dark suits, but his eyes look tired and it's the first time Sam's seen him without a tie. He's touched that his brother's death has apparently impacted the other man because he always figured that if he lost Dean, he'd be the only person mourning his death.

"Sam," Alastair says, as they shake hands. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks." He glances up at the nondescript building. "I just wanna get this over with."

Alastair nods and gestures to the door. "This way."

Inside, the doctor introduces him to an Agent Henriksen. Although the man offers his condolences, he doubts the other man means it - as far as he's obviously concerned, he got the bad guy so Sam's feelings are just collateral damage. Henriksen wants to conduct an interview as soon as possible, which is fine by him because all he wants to do is get out of here and put Shere Neck in the rear view mirror. 

First, the formalities.

He's only allowed to view Dean's body through a window and a white sheet covers all but his brother's head and shoulders. When Alastair had broken the news, he'd said there was no possibility of Dean being saved, so Sam knows that innocent white covering is hiding significant damage. There's no point asking for more details; Dean is dead and facts won't change that. He nods and says yes, it's Dean, before Agent Henriksen shows him into a private room and prepares to start on his questions.

He wonders out loud if he needs a lawyer present, but Henriksen assures him no, this is just an initial chat. Henriksen doesn't make air quotes when he says it, but they're there all the same. He'll be asked to make a formal statement at a later date and if they need anything else from him, then they'll let him know. When Dr. Alastair offers to join him, he's grateful to the other man, because having someone else who doesn't view his brother through the lens that says psychotic serial killer and nothing more, is very welcome.

He realises, grudgingly, that Henriksen isn't quite the asshole he'd pegged him as. As the 'chat' progresses, he listens intently as Sam talks through their family history and he even manages to conceal any skepticism when Sam insists that Dean was never violent. They part an hour later, shaking hands. Henriksen reiterates his sympathies and this time it feels more genuine. He says he'll call when he wants Sam to make his formal statement or if there's anything else they need to discuss.

When Henriksen calls mere hours later, it's a surprise. What the other man has to say rocks him to the core.

Dean's body has disappeared from the morgue.

"I'm really sorry, Sam. I don't know what else I can tell you," Henriksen says as Sam grips the phone so tightly it threatens to break. "There's no CCTV," the agent says, sounding annoyed. "And mortuaries aren't usually hotbeds of crime. I don't know why anyone would want to take your brother's body, but I promise you we'll keep looking."

"Thank you." He's about to end the call when something occurs to him. "Agent Henriksen? What was the name of the place where my brother died?"

"It was a town called Midian."

The name sends a cold, slick sensation down his spine. Dean spoke of Midian often over the last few years, but it was a place he'd thought only existed in his brother's dreams - an imaginary place that helped Dean cope during his darkest days. To hear not only that it's real, but is the location of his brother's demise feels like fate or _something_ , and after he's ended the call, he sets about finding somewhere to stay because it seems he's not done with this place just yet.

He's eventually able to secure some lodgings. The motel is slightly out of town because everywhere in Shere Neck is fully booked and the extortionate price of the room speaks more about the limited availability everywhere else than the quality of the facilities here. 

Once checked in, he walks back into town and heads to the nearest bar. The events of the day have given him an intense desire to lose himself in alcohol, even if it's just for a few hours. The bartender is a genial fellow, so he tells him he wants to know how to get to Midian. 

The guy huffs a laugh as he fixes Sam's drink. 

"You an' everyone else, it seems. No one ever goes up there anymore, but since they blew that lowlife crazy bastard away, it's like everyone wants to check the place out." The guy grins as he places the beer and whiskey in front of Sam. "You wanna be sure that the son of a bitch is dead too, huh?"

He makes a non-comital sound and downs the whiskey in one. He wants to punch the stupid smug grin off the guy's face, but he clamps down on any reply, given that the other patrons of the bar won't exactly have a hard time choosing sides. The now-empty glass is slid back across the bar.

"Same again and keep 'em coming." 

OoOoO

Turns out, the bartender's not the only person joyously celebrating his brother's death. He hears Dean described as everything, from whacked out nut job to the anti-Christ himself and he endures these overheard conversations until he reaches up to discover that his face is wet. His feet react, taking him outside where the fresh air and the reduced noise levels are a welcome relief.

He scrubs at his face and takes a long shaky breath. Maybe staying in town and heading up to Midian is a bad idea. Maybe he should just get back in his car and...

"You okay?" 

He jumps slightly, not realising someone had gotten so close. The voice belongs to a slim blond girl, with short hair and elfin features. She's peering at him curiously, her expression concerned, even though a smile dances in her eyes as she waits for his answer.

"Yeah... Bad day," he replies, aware that's the most ridiculous understatement. 

"Hmm," she agrees, cocking her head to one side. "Me too. I need a drink, but not here. Too many assholes."

She moves away, then stops when he doesn't go to follow. She smiles at him. "I'm Meg, by the way."

"Sam."

"Nice to meet you, Sam. So you were saying about that drink?"

Her enthusiasm is infectious and he smiles despite himself. " _I_ didn't say a word, so I guess that means you're buying."

"Cheapskate," she says with a grin as she links his arm and leads him to a different bar.

OoOoO

"So you think your brother was innocent?" Meg says, twirling a cocktail stick between her fingers.

He rolls his eyes slightly at her summation of the story he's just told her. "I know that sounds like I'm in denial - hell, everyone in prison is innocent if you ask them, but-"

"But you knew your brother best," Meg finishes. It's not a question.

He nods as he stares down at the last of his beer. Part of him still can't quite believe he's telling a complete stranger, but alcohol has lubricated his mouth and she doesn't strike him as the judgmental type, so everything has come spilling out.

"Are you sure you want to go up there?" she asks after a few moments have passed. 

He considers the question before he nods. "Yeah. I know it might sound a little weird, but Dean dreamt this place a lot. I guess I just wanted see what he saw, you know? Then, the whole thing happened with his body disappearing and, I dunno, but something's telling me there might be a connection. I know the cops are investigating, but I need to do _something_ or I'm gonna go nuts."

"Well, if you want a little company..." 

His first instinct is to say no, but having Meg there might actually be a good thing. From the moment he realised Dean was missing he's been alone in an ever-worsening nightmare. Her natural levity is a boon. 

"Hey, you know I'm not trying to hit on you, right?" She smiles, her expression teasing. "You're safe, Sam. No offence, but I prefer my guys with a few more miles on the clock."

He laughs and makes a decision. "Sure, if you want to come I'd be glad of the company. Speaking of which," he says, glancing at his watch, "since it's almost tomorrow, I'm gonna hit the hay."

Meg nods, but makes no move to finish her own drink. "Okay. I'm gonna stay here and see if there's any action in this one horse town." She winks. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck. I'll see you out front at nine?"

"I'll be there. Bring coffee."

He heads back to his motel. The rodeo crowd are showing no sign of ending the party - he has to politely extricate himself from a raucous group of women congregating around the main doors. Up in his room, he tries his best to shut out the racket. Despite the lack of success, he falls into a restless sleep, punctuated by dreams of Dean calling out to him from beyond the grave.

OoOoO

He's surprised to find Meg waiting outside his motel at ten to nine the following morning. She's wearing dark glasses despite the grey clouds overhead, but any question mark over her choice of accessories is answered when she groans deeply and holds out her hands for the coffee he's carrying.

"Late night?" he asks with a wry smile. 

"Ugh. Coffee first, talk later. I'll tell you about it in the car."

Turns out, while he was tossing and turning Meg was meeting the man of her dreams. She smacks him playfully at his obvious cynicism.

"So, let me get this straight," he says, eyes fixed on the horizon as he rubs his leg ruefully, "Mr. Right just happened to walk into that dump of a bar?"

"Hey, Fate's fucking awesome, what can I say? My mom always used to say 'Meg, there's a man walking ‘round with your name on his mind - all you gotta do is bump into him.'"

He laughs. "Well I guess she was right. So what do you know about him? I'm assuming you spent the night in deep, meaningful conversation, right?"

She slaps his leg again but she's laughing too. "We _did_ talk actually. His name is Jeremy and he's a banker, based in Seattle. He's recently divorced because his wife cheated on him and he's ready to enjoy not being married."

"Sounds perfect," he replies dryly.

"I'm going to ignore the obvious sarcasm and say, yes, you're absolutely right. I swear he has the most awesome voice I've ever heard in my _life_. Seriously, it's like _honey_."

"So when are you seeing him again?"

"Tonight. He had stuff to do today and so did I, obviously, so we've agreed to meet up tonight."

"Yeah, well, I appreciate you coming."

It takes another hour and a few wrong turns before they find Midian. It seems like any interest in Dean has died as quickly as it began, as aside from the signs of recent human activity, they don't encounter a single soul. The sun has emerged from behind the clouds and is high in the sky as they park the car on the side of the road. They spend an hour exploring the abandoned town before Meg points out the cemetery.

"You wanna look down there?" she says doubtfully.

He studies the vast plot surrounded by a large, imposing wall. It doesn't make any sense to come all the way here and leave without seeing every aspect of Midian.

"Come on," he says, palming the car keys. "We'll drive closer and you can stay in the car and nurse your hangover."

Meg decides she's going to do just that. He leaves her lying on the hood, tapping her feet along to the music on the radio as he heads for the gates.

"You sure you'll be okay?" he calls out just before he slips through the gap. The response is a lazy 'OK' sign. 

Once inside, he studies the graveyard, stunned by the size and number of the tombs. 

"Why would Dean come here?" he says to himself. None of this makes any sense - even _being here_ isn't giving him any answers. Disheartened, he sets off down the central avenue, intending to start at the far end and work his way back towards the gate, even though he's no idea what he's actually looking for.

Despite the stillness of the day, he doesn't hear the low rumble of another car approaching. He's so far into the cemetery that he doesn't see Meg's face light up when the tall man in the somber suit steps from the vehicle.

"Jeremy," she purrs, delighted. "What are you doing here?"

OoOoO

He's wandering amongst the graves, studying the inscriptions here and there when he hears a sound. He stills - someone, something, is here. He almost laughs to himself; of _course_ something is here. There must be wildlife of every variety living amongst this overgrown house of the dead.

There, he hears it again, off to his left somewhere. As he listens more carefully he realises that it sounds like an animal in pain and immediately sets off in that direction. He thinks of Dean, rolling his eyes because he always laughed at Sam's 'do-gooder' tendencies and the memory is like a physical hurt. Instead, he focusses on breaking through the undergrowth until he's only a couple of feet from the creature.

"What the...?"

Initially he'd thought it must be a dog or a fox, but closer inspection reveals it's like no dog he's ever seen before. The beast is hairless, its skin cracked and weeping moisture that saturates the stone beneath it. Its eyes are like onyx, no pupils that he can see. It's trying to get to its feet, but its movements are pitiful. Even though he's no idea what it is, he knows it's dying.

There's nothing he can do for it - even if it lived long enough for him to get it to the car, it almost certainly wouldn't survive the drive back to Shere Neck. All he _can_ do for it is move it out of the glare of the sun so it can die in peace.

"Hey, it's okay," he says soothingly as he approaches. With no clue what it is, he doesn't know if it's going to sink fangs into him - the last gasp defence of a dying beast.

"Please, bring him to me."

The voice startles him, doubly so since the speaker is actually standing _inside_ one of the crypts. It's a woman. She's mostly shrouded in the shadows, but he can see the worry on her face as much as he can hear it in her voice. His inaction prompts her to repeat her appeal.

"Please. He won't hurt you."

The entreaty is enough to get him moving again. He crouches down and scoops the creature into his arms, wincing slightly at the texture of its body as it brushes his bare skin. Satisfied that it's not going to suddenly bite him or try to leap for freedom, he straightens up and meets the woman's fearful gaze.

"I think it's too late," he starts to say, feeling bad for her even though it's not his fault. 

"No," the woman replies, with unexpected vehemence. "It's the sun. Please, bring my baby here."

He moves toward the crypt and the woman steps back, opening the door further. He's on the threshold of the antechamber when there's a roar that sounds like it's coming from the bowels of the earth. Shocked, he turns to the stairs that disappear downwards, but there's nothing to see except shadows.

"Ignore them," she implores, waking him from his stupor. " _Please_."

He completes the journey, depositing the creature into the woman's arms. Almost instantly, whether it's being out of the sun or being close to its mother, its movements become more animated.

"Don't look!" she snaps, in response to his obvious confusion.

It's too late. It's impossible for him to look away when the beast starts to transform before his very eyes. In just under a minute, the writhing dog-like creature is changing shape, legs and body elongating, until it's possible to see what it's going to become.

She sets the small boy on his feet once the transformation is complete.

"He likes to play outside," she says, as if this will explain everything. "I tell him to stay out of the sun, but he's a child; he doesn't listen, even though it's for his own good."

"A child," he echoes, still reeling. "What the hell..."

The woman strokes the boy's hair affectionately. Now that he can see her better, he realises that they're probably a similar age, although her pallor tells him she probably also avoids the sun. She's casually dressed, but the fact that she's inside a cemetery with a creature that is now a boy tells him their age is probably the only thing they have in common. He watches as she glances toward the steps that lead down, her expression anxious, as if someone might overhear her.

"Listen, I know why you've come. I owe you for saving Jacob's life."

Despite the shock of what he's just witnessed, this focusses his attention like a laser. 

"My brother, Dean? Is he here? Did someone steal his body and bring it here?" He moves toward her quickly. 

"Amy."

They both turn as a man emerges from the darkness. _He's coming up the stairs from a fucking crypt_. He's surprised to see that the voice belongs to a young Asian man. His expression is serious as he studies the woman.

"I'm sorry, Prophet. He saved Jacob."

"I know," the newcomer replies, making a gesture for to woman to come. "But you have already put us at risk by revealing yourself to someone from the natural world."

He steps forward, feeling this opportunity slipping away. "Please. My brother, Dean. Did you people steal his body?"

The man looks at him, a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. 

"We’re in a graveyard. What makes you think we'd need a body?" The humour is gone in an instant. "Amy. Bring Jacob and come below."

"I saved the boy," Sam interjects before they can leave. "Just give me some answers. That's all I want."

"We can't help you," the man says firmly. "Now go, and forget what you saw here."

_Like fuck_ , Sam thinks. He makes after them even though the darkness has swallowed them as they descend the stairs. The noise, the dull roar he heard earlier, is louder now. He hesitates for a moment, nerves on fire as every instinct in his body is screaming at him to turn and run, but the woman, Amy, had dangled a carrot that he badly wants. _I know why you've come._

Suddenly, there are hands on him. They pull at him, dragging him down. He fights with all the strength he has even though seconds ago he was coming willingly. The roar grows louder. There's laughter too - cruel and mocking and feeding on his terror. He swings a fist and connects with something, but he's fighting shadows and their strength is even greater than his fear.

Then just as suddenly as it began, they relinquish their grip on him. It causes him to fall back up the stairs, but only for a split-second before he's back on his feet and running for his life. He doesn't turn to see if he's being followed - he doesn't _have_ to. Whatever was down there cloaks him still and as he bursts into the sunlight, it's only the distance that he puts between himself and that place that causes the dread to lessen. He's back on the central avenue with the gate in sight when he finally allows himself to drop from an all-out sprint to a half-jog, half-brisk walk, with a glance backward to check that he isn't being trailed. He doesn't really feel any better until he's safely - he hopes - on the other side of the gates.

Breath slowing, he remembers Meg is out here and he's hit by the desire to get back to her quickly - to find someone untouched by the darkness he's just witnessed. He strides through the long grass, darting glances backward just in case the feeling of safety is an illusion, until he reaches the car.

The driver's door is swung wide, but the engine is switched off and the keys are gone. Meg's not here.

What _is_ here is a long streak of blood smeared down the driver's side window. He looks around; there's more blood on the grass.

"Meg?" he says, first quietly and then louder when it's clear that she's not here. Suddenly, the sunlight and stillness feels as threatening as the crypt he just left behind. He begins to search for her, wishing he had something he could use as a weapon. He reaches a small group of trees and is about to turn back when he spots more blood. He circles the largest tree, dread mounting, but is still unprepared for what he finds.

Meg is here, her elfin features painted in her own blood. Her eyes stare through him, glassy and lifeless. She looks as if she's resting against the tree, standing up, but the large knife protruding from her chest makes a lie of the pose.

"Holy fuck," he breathes.

He steps back, an involuntary response to the horror. He connects with something solid and spins, expecting another tree but finding a man, at least he _thinks_ it's a man, because the face is hidden by a mask dreamt up in a small child's nightmare. It looks like soft grey leather, the dimples of skin giving it a suitably appropriate dead flesh texture. The eyes are two buttons; white thread has stitched them in place with an inexperienced hand. The mouth is a zipper, the downward tilt giving it a perpetually unhappy expression. 

"Sam," the mask says. "What brings you here?"

The voice is instantly familiar as, he realises, is the dark suit and long wool overcoat. His mind is still yelling denials even when the mask is removed and Dr. Alastair's smiling face is revealed.

"Doctor? What the hell is going on?"

The smile remains, but there's anger there too. "Who would have thought poor, feeble-minded Dean could have caused so much trouble."

"He didn't kill _anyone_."

"I know; but he made an excellent scapegoat."

"You? You killed all those people? But _why?_ "

Alastair glances past him to the body impaled on the tree and sighs. "The world is a cesspit, Sam. Life is given to so many undeserving people - shallow, vacuous whores like your friend Meg here, _fools_ like your brother, tormented by their own minds. Someone's got to clean it all up."

"Someone like you?" he offers bitingly.

Alastair looks at him with pity. 

"I actually liked you, Sam. I thought taking Dean out of the equation would enable you to actually have a life for yourself." The psychiatrist's expression hardens to one of flint-like fury. "I had no idea it wouldn't be easy. Everyone else just died _so easily_. So now your death is going to bring him out of hiding and I can get another shot at him."

"My brother's dead," he replies, glancing around, judging escape routes. _God, Meg, I'm so sorry._

"No, he's not. I have no idea how, but he's not dead. See, the cops may have not told you, but they told _me_ \- the morgue was unlocked from the inside. They were _Dean's_ fingerprints on the handle. So tell me: how does that happen unless your brother's still alive? And best of all? He's _here_."

Later, he'll blame everything Alastair told him for his delayed reactions, but when the other man draws a knife from inside his overcoat, he's not quick enough to avoid the blade completely. It misses his chest - undoubtedly the intended target - but it finds a home in his thigh. Blood and pain abundant, he swings a fist at Alastair, connecting with his jaw and sending the man reeling. It's the distraction he needs, and he's off and running before the other man can regroup and come at him again.

He runs as best he can for the car before he remembers that he gave Meg the keys and sharply changes direction. The graveyard means certain danger, yet somehow meeting his end at the hands of monsters is better than being murdered by this duplicitous human. Blood-slicked hands pull him through the gates; a fleeting glance back says that Alastair is now on his trail.

He knows with the knife wound in his leg he won't be able to outrun his attacker, so he ducks down one of the smaller avenues, then slips through a gap between two of the tombs. His heart is pounding and he's starting to feel lightheaded with blood loss as he desperately tries to come up with a plan. If he can make it back to where he found the dying creature - Jacob - then maybe he can plead with the monsters to give him sanctuary until the danger has passed. He saved the boy's life, after all. If his pleas fall on deaf ears, then surely no worse a fate awaits him than if he just waits for Alastair to finish him off with his knife?

The alternative is to hide and wait until Alastair is looking elsewhere in the cemetery. Maybe then he can make it back to Meg's body and hopefully - _hopefully_ \- find the car keys and get out of here. He closes his eyes for a moment, both options feeling completely insurmountable. Satisfied that Alastair isn't close, he shucks off his shirt and rolls it up, tying it around his upper leg to try and staunch the flow of blood. Every noise he makes as he puts pressure on the wound sounds too loud in his ears.

Breathing back under control, he makes the decision to make a break for it. He eases himself back through the gap and is preparing to run for the gate when something heavy makes contact with the back of his head and he's sent spiraling into unconsciousness and certain death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

DEAN

Waking in the morgue, surrounded by the implements needed to conduct a postmortem, he first assumes that this is just another hallucination. He's naked on the table, but his attention is drawn to the bullet holes that riddle his chest, and, when he sits up, his legs too.

"Holy shit."

He speaks quietly, but his voice still seems to echo in the empty room. He feels stiff, like he's been asleep for too long, and when he climbs down off the slab he's not completely convinced that his legs are going to hold his weight. He's surprised when the stiffness seems to instantly disappear, but this is probably just a hallucination so the laws of reality won't apply. 

There's a mirrored wall to his left, so he heads that way to perform a closer inspection. Usually in his very vivid hallucinations, the face looking back at him isn't at all familiar and if it is, it's because it's taken the form of someone famous from TV. Now, the face is still very much his, even when he touches it to be sure. The mirror also affords him a better view of his upper body and it's here that he sees the other injury, the one not created by jittery cops and their twitchy trigger fingers.

He touches it carefully, the memory of teeth sinking into flesh and tearing the muscle and tissue away sparking violently behind his eyes and it hits him - this is all real.

The realisation should send his heart rate soaring, but it doesn't. On instinct, he tries to find his pulse, first in his wrist and then in his neck, but there's no sensation beneath his fingers. He returns to the table and grabs one of the scalpels. His arms are a mess of old scars, the legacy of years of self-harm. He chooses a spot and cuts decisively across his wrist.

The familiar rush of red doesn't come. Instead, the cut gapes like a barren river bed. Before his very eyes, the wound doesn't exactly heal, but it becomes less significant and yet in a dusty corner of his mind, something has awoken. Something that calls to him, enticing and impatient, from a place he doesn't know, that still feels like home. It occurs to him then: it isn't blood that flows in his veins any longer.

It's Midian. 

OoOoO

He steals clothes from a locker and leaves by a fire exit. It's a relief when he's clear of the building and he's keen to put distance between himself and Shere Neck so he sets off at a run across rolling fields, running with a speed and endurance he's certain he didn't possess before. It occurs to him that he's no way of knowing if he's going in the right direction and yet he's completely sure at the same time, like some innate compass is guiding him home. He thinks of Sam briefly - Sam was always the closest thing he had to home before - but his brother has an opportunity now he's gone. In a sense, they can both move on.

His flight gives him purpose and a lightness he's never experienced before. For the first time, he doesn't feel the burdens of anxiety and confusion; it's all _reality_ \- even the things that could only be imagined in dreams. His body, though bullet-riddled, feels stronger, faster, _better_. He pauses for breath and realises he doesn't need to; his hand presses to his completely silent chest. He should be freaking out, but instead he just laughs.

Midian appears on the horizon. He bypasses the town and heads straight for the cemetery, his destination finally in sight. There are no signs that the police were down here _en masse_ less than twenty four hours ago, aside from the flattened grass where they parked their patrol cars, waiting for him to appear. His eyes flick to the ground not far from the gates. The grass here is brown, indelibly stained with his own blood and he smiles.

The gnawing sensation in his stomach grows stronger as he steps through the gates, onto hallowed ground. The same instinct that brought him here guides him along the rows of tombs, every step feels like it's being observed. His confidence only falters when he rounds the corner and runs into the dark-skinned man and his blue-eyed companion - _Benny?_ \- resting against a mausoleum. They look like they're waiting for him as they both smile to reveal those wicked teeth and for a moment he thinks he's gone through everything just to make it back here to die by their hands.

"Well, well. The wanderer returns," the dark-skinned man says in that mocking tone as he turns to his companion.

Benny walks toward him and he tenses. The vampire then claps him on the shoulder. 

"Welcome home, brother."

OoOoO

They take him below. He follows them through the catacombs until they reach a chamber lit by candles. There are others here; some just look like regular people, and yet somehow he knows that they're all monsters, even if the surface is so ordinary. Benny takes him to a young man seated at the rear of the chamber who is deep in conversation with a woman in a diaphanous white dress. It's only when he looks at her properly does he realise that he can see _through_ her, to the candle flickering on the chamber wall.

The young man excuses himself as they approach. The woman promptly disappears.

"Dean Winchester," the man says as he holds out his hand. 

He shakes it, aware of many sets of eyes upon him as he does so.

"I'm Midian's prophet," the young man continues, "and you are now one of us. Do you wish to join us here?"

"Yes." The words tumble from his lips. His eagerness seems to amuse the prophet for a split second before his expression darkens. 

"You must understand, Dean, that there are laws that you must abide by if you are to make your home amongst us. We're the Nightbreed, Dean; the tribes of the moon. All I ask is that you consider whether this is truly what you want."

The statement hangs in the air for a moment.

"First, you need to find someone who will tutor you," the prophet says. "So you understand the laws."

"I will."

They all turn to see who's spoken. In the entrance to the chamber stands a man whose face it takes him a moment to place.

"Jimmy?" he says to the blue-eyed man, last seen ripping his own skin off in a hospital room back in Kansas.

"Castiel," the man corrects, with mock seriousness. He looks completely ordinary - aside of course from the pair of enormous wings that protrude from his back, filling the doorway completely.

The prophet shrugs. "He's all yours; you've got one hour. Return when you've made your decision, Dean. I'll be here."

They exit the chamber and Castiel gestures for him to follow. He allows his mind to race as they walk even though his eyes never leave other man's back. The wings are almost Ji - _Castiel's_ -entire height and inky black in colour. They shimmer slightly as they pass the flickering light of the wall mounted torches. Everything about this situation is seriously fucking weird. 

They reach a room with a cot in the corner and some books in a heap on the floor. 

"Welcome to my humble abode," Castiel announces, gesturing to chair almost hidden by shadows in the corner of the room.

"You have a bed," Dean says flatly. "Shouldn't you be sleeping in a coffin?"

"Now why would I want to do that?"

"But what... what _are_ you?" he asks, confusion and curiosity vying for the same goal.

"I'm an angel," Castiel replies simply. "But I was cast out of Heaven because my brothers and sisters thought I was too interested in humans. As my punishment, they made me one. I knew I needed to come here, but it wasn't until I met you that it finally happened."

Castiel smiles as he sits down himself. Dean finds himself momentarily distracted as he tries to work out how the wings have allowed this to happen, then he says, "So what happened back at the hospital?"

"After you bailed?" Castiel snorts in amusement. "I was dying, and then they let this other doctor in to see me. Long overcoat, weird voice. The funny thing is he didn't want to talk about me, or what I did. He just wanted to know about _you_ \- what we talked about, if I knew where you were going."

"So you told him?"

"I didn't have much choice," Castiel counters, irritated. "I told you - I was dying. I was so hopped up on drugs I barely knew what I was saying. It's not like I lasted much longer after his visit. He made sure of that."

Another of Alastair's victims. The hum of whatever it is that now flows through his veins rises to a low roar as he contemplates revenge on the man he spent the last few years putting his complete trust in. 

"It didn't matter," Castiel says, brightening again. "I knew I'd end up here one way or the other and it seems the same is true for you." He grins suddenly. "So let's see about getting you membership of the club."

OoOoO

When they return to the chamber an hour later there are yet more people present. He mentally shakes himself - they're not 'people' as Castiel has explained. They refer to themselves as the Nightbreed and to be called people, or 'naturals' is almost an insult even though most of them were human at one time. For every Breed one could pass on the street without a second glance, there is another with a monstrous visage, face and body created in a nightmare. Yet they are here to welcome him into the fold, so who is he to judge them aberrant?

There's a solemn air to the gathering. Castiel has talked him through the ceremony, a baptism that gives him the right to number himself amongst the Breed. In the centre is a font filled with a deep red liquid that bubbles and sparks like it has a life of its own. The prophet stands behind it, dark eyes studying him intently. 

"Have you made a decision?"

"I have."

"You understand that if you join us, you will leave the natural world behind? The life you lived will be a dream."

He thinks of Sam. _This is better for him. He deserves his own life and he can't have that with me around._

"I do."

The prophet nods. He indicates the font and gestures for Dean to remove his t-shirt. "This contains the blood of Amara, who made Midian. Are you ready to be judged by her?"

"I am," he says, watching as the liquid swirls, foaming and rising to meet the prophet's hand as it moves toward the font. Eyes track the hand's path as it rises to meet his chest. It's burning before it even reaches his skin. It makes contact and he's on the verge of crying out, begging for it to stop when he's suddenly filled with a rush of something that he never wants to end. The prophet removes his hand, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

"Dean Winchester, the tribes of the moon embrace you."

Someone, he thinks probably Castiel, starts a round of applause and he smiles because finally, amongst the weird and the wonderful of Midian, he's no longer an outsider. 

He's found a home.

OoOoO

It's laughable that he thinks his good fortune could last. Life has forsaken him, so why should death be any different? Barely twenty four hours later there's a ripple of excitement through the catacombs; someone is above ground in the cemetery, about to meet their death. They won't risk going up there to watch, even though death is undeniably a spectator sport to the Breed. Instead, a witch called Rowena offers to show them via her magic. She's a short lady with fiery red hair and a demeanour to match and Dean watches, fascinated, as she prepares a spell that will show them the events unfolding above ground in the cauldron that almost fills her chamber.

Images flash in the murky depths. A woman, dead already; a killer with a horrifying mask and a man, the next victim, running for his life amongst the tombs. Despite the mask, he's already placed his former doctor, but it's this last scene that causes him to cry out.

"What is it?" Castiel asks, gripping his arm tightly as the other Breed stare curiously.

"That's my brother!" he yells, yanking his arm free and running to the door. He pulls it open to find the prophet on the other side, blocking his path.

"You can't go up there," the other man says calmly. "You made a vow to abide Midian's laws. How can we stay hidden from the natural world if we flaunt ourselves in front of them?"

"But he's my brother and he's going to die! You can't stop me."

He goes to shove the smaller man out of the way and almost stumbles as he passes right through the figure. He takes the steps, three at a time, the fires of hell roaring in his ears as he crashes out of the doors and into the scene he witnessed in the cauldron depths.

"Alastair!"

The masked man, looming over his unconscious brother, turns at the sound of his name. Slowly, he stands, his reaction to seeing his former patient is hidden behind the button eyes and zipper mouth of his mask. In his right hand, he's holding a large carving knife, already stained with blood.

"Dean," he says genially. "It's good to see you again."

"Can't say the same about you," Dean growls in reply. "Get the fuck away from my brother."

"Happy to. Once you're dead, I'll have plenty of time to decide how he dies."

Alastair lunges with a speed surprising for his size. The blade he's holding hits its target - not surprising given that Dean makes no move to avoid it. With the knife buried to the hilt in his chest, he glances down at it, then back up at the person who put it there and grins.

"Surprise," he says as he uses Alastair's hesitation to grab the other man, spin him and put him in a headlock. "And now you owe me a new t-shirt."

He drops a throaty laugh in the other man's ear as he reaches up and yanks the mask off. 

"Can't have you hiding. I want to see your face when you die."

"You should be dead, Dean."

He laughs again. "You don't get it, do you?" He tightens his grip, pushing his chest out, deliberately making the handle of the knife dig into the space between Alastair's shoulder blades. The other man struggles, but it's no use.

"I'm dead, doc. I'm the _walking dead_. So, you can take every fucking knife you own and stick them in my heart, but it's not gonna make any difference. _You_ , on the other hand, you, I'm pretty sure I can kill _really_ easily."

As he's talking, Castiel appears. The angel saunters past and hops up onto one of the gravestones, watching the scene with interest. He crosses his arms and smiles.

"Ah, the good doctor," Castiel says jovially, although the words carry the hint of a threat. He bares his teeth. "You made sure you were the last person I ever saw."

"It was a mercy killing," Alastair protests. 

"That was no fucking mercy!" The angel's anger ricochets around the crypts. His wings stretch out - a magnificent sight. "You made me spill secrets I'd kept all my life, doctor."

"I'm- I'm sorry."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Oh spare me." He turns his attention to Dean. "Are you gonna kill him or not?"

Truth is, he doesn't know _what_ he should do. Alastair is clearly no longer the one in charge. Instead of killing him, maybe he could insist on the doctor going back to Shere Neck and confessing to his crimes. On the other hand, what would that change, aside from him not being remembered as a serial killer? Sam would know what to do. He glances at his brother's unconscious form and the rage rekindles.

"Fine, I'll do it," Castiel says, jumping down from the grave and striding purposefully toward them. 

"No," Dean growls, as Castiel makes a grab for Alastair. There's a brief three-way scuffle, which allows the doctor to slip out of Dean's grasp. Alastair takes this opportunity and runs. His fury ignites and he shoves Castiel hard. 

"He's mine!"

The words leave his throat like a roar. The hell fires of Midian surge in his veins and he gives chase, aware that his physical appearance is altering to something more monstrous, bones reconfiguring, skin and teeth shifting and changing, nails becoming claws. He revels in the transformation, feeling powerful and strong. Metamorphosis complete, he sets off, running on legs fuelled by a thirst for vengeance. Alastair's head start will be eaten up in seconds. He'll wear the doctor's blood not a moment too soon.

But then a cry for help sounds from behind him. It reaches his ears and he stops suddenly, feet skidding in the dirt. If his brother has regained consciousness then he might be in danger from other Breed. Despite the bloodlust, he makes an instant decision: vengeance will have to wait.

He returns to find Castiel crouching over his brother, who appears to be unconscious once more. Sam's position has shifted slightly, indicating that he'd come to briefly. The angel's blue eyes go wide in apparent innocence as he steps back quickly.

"I wasn't going to do anything, I swear!"

He bares his teeth furiously, his anger happy to switch targets if it still means some action. Then he glances at his brother and is hit by a different emotion. He sees Sam, six months old, as they escape from the fire that killed their mother. He can feel his baby brother in his arms and the need and desire to protect wins out over his rage.

He's bending down to scoop Sam into his arms when Castiel says, "are you sure you want him to see you like that?"

The angel has a point. He studies his hands and the claws he was so proud of moments before. He can't let Sam see what he's become. Like a switch being flipped, he breaths in and the transformation back to his human form begins. It's over in barely a minute and, satisfied that he'll no longer terrify his brother, he picks up Sam's unconscious form and carries him inside.

He reaches the catacombs and realises he doesn't know what to do now. The Breed that are present watch him curiously and his protective instinct bristles at their hungry eyes. Castiel has disappeared, but a woman comes forward.

"This way," she says beckoning to him. When he hesitates, she adds, "Your brother saved my boy's life. Let me repay his kindness. My name is Amy."

He feels like he can trust her, so he follows her to her chamber. A small boy looks up from where he's playing as they enter. Amy indicates where he can put Sam and he lays his brother down, gently brushing the hair from his face. When he turns, there is another Breed in the doorway.

"The prophet wants to see you."

He glances back at Sam and then at Amy, who nods. "Go. I'll take care of your brother."

Reluctantly, he follows the messenger, back to the large chamber where he was baptised. Everything had seemed so hopeful then; a new chapter in his dark life. He was losing Sam, but Sam would be free of him and his problems, so he could accept the loss. 

He turns the corner and sees the prophet waiting for him, the young man's expression coldly furious. Before he can issue any kind of justification for his actions, the prophet rounds on him.

"What you've done has put us all at risk."

"Sam won't say anything."

"The other man! What of him?"

Dean thinks. "He won't talk either. What's he going to say? He tried to kill a man, but was stopped by someone who was shot dead in front of multiple people?"

"It doesn't matter what he says," the prophet continues, "if he leads our enemies here, you've doomed us all. Just get out. Take your brother and go."

Panic rises within him. "I can't! I don't belong in the natural world anymore. You said so yourself!"

"It's not my decision. You agreed to abide by our laws."

"Who made the laws?"

"Amara, who made Midian."

"Let me talk to her - explain that I had no choice."

The prophet remains unmoved. "You can't negotiate with a _god_. She'll devour you before you even have chance to plead your case."

"I just want to try, _please_."

The prophet shrugs, the gesture making him look like a sullen teenager. "I can't stop you, Dean. Go down to the tabernacle, but don't expect to return."

It's tantamount to permission so he takes his leave. He's never been to the tabernacle - most of the Breed haven't - yet instinctively he knows where to go. He hurries down into the bowels of the earth, keen to come to some kind of resolution with Midian's creator that will allow him to stay and for Sam to walk away from here.

He hopes she's a benevolent being, but from everything he's heard about her so far, he doubts it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

ALASTAIR

He sees his chance and runs like he's being chased by the devil himself. It's only when there are miles between him and Midian does his foot ease up off the pedal. With the growing sense of safety, his anger mounts, curdling in his gut. Dean Winchester had seemed like the perfect mark. He'd known that it couldn't last forever - that one day he'd have to let his patient take the fall and then find a new scapegoat before he could continue his work, but this... _this_ is not how he pictured things at all.

What had happened in the cemetery had thrown him off his game completely. The reappearance of the man who had insisted he was an angel, now sporting an honest-to-God full sized pair of wings. A man _he'd_ dispatched with his own hand.

And then Dean.

He remembers his knife disappearing up to the hilt in the other man's chest and the grin that followed it. Dean... Strong, powerful, _in control_. He grips the steering wheel tighter. He's no idea how that pathetic excuse for a human could survive that blow, but he's certain the answer lies in that cemetery. 

Even though he didn't see anyone else there, he knows there were more of them, like they were lurking just beyond his peripheral vision, observing his every action; hence his decision to leave instead of rearming and trying to take Dean down himself. He might not like it, but he knows he needs backup if Dean Winchester and his deviant friends are to be destroyed. 

When he has re-established his calm facade, he calls Agent Henriksen and requests that they meet at the police station in Shere Neck. Henriksen is there when he arrives, talking to Shere Neck's sheriff. He'd met the man briefly when they'd first arrived, looking for Dean and he'd hated him instantly.

"Alastair," Henriksen says as he approaches, "you remember Sheriff Gordon Walker, right?"

"I do," he replies neutrally.

"Well, if you could tell him what you just told me..."

The sheriff's expression is making his feelings plainly obvious. Alastair nods, whilst fantasising about how much he'd enjoy disembowelling the man.

"I've found Dean."

"You've found his body," Sheriff Walker corrects. 

"Dean's not dead." He pauses to savour their reactions, because as much as he loathes the situation himself, it's always enjoyable to have one up on people he'd happily kill. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Walker says, the aggressive asshole. 

Alastair shrugs, knows his apparent nonchalance will be aggravating the cop if nothing else. "He's alive, although I have no idea how and he's gone back to the cemetery in Midian. He's killed again up there and there'll certainly be more deaths if he's not stopped." He turns to look at the sheriff specifically. "You need to take some of your men and go through that cemetery inch by inch."

"First," Walker says, jabbing his finger into Alastair's chest, "I don't take orders off no fuckin' _head_ doctor, and second, I've been sheriff of Shere Neck for almost ten years now and I wouldn't need to _be_ sheriff if I'd had a dollar for every time I've heard crazy talk about that fuckin' graveyard!"

A staring contest. Alastair makes a decision to kill this moron slowly once this whole Dean Winchester mess is sorted. Henriksen is watching them both like a demented tennis match, waiting to see which one of them will take the point in this round.

"Like I said," Alastair replies calmly, like he's not just had a finger in his sternum. "I can guarantee there'll be more deaths if you don't act now."

Walker turns his furious expression on Henriksen now. "What d'you think, Agent?"

Henriksen shrugs. "Can't hurt to look."

OoOoO

SAM

He wakes with a rush of anxiety. The memory of what preceded his loss of consciousness returns with crystal clarity and he sits up quickly, eyes darting, looking for danger.

"It's okay," a female voice says off to his left, not quite soothing, but not unfriendly either. He looks over and realises it's the woman from earlier. _Amy_ , his mind supplies.

"Where am I?" he asks.

"You're below. In Midian."

He buries his head in his hands until he realises that the boy is standing beside him, serious dark eyes fixed on his face.

"Hey," Sam says, trying for a smile. "I'm glad you're okay... After what happened earlier."

"Jacob has taken quite a liking to you," Amy explains as she brings him some water. He gratefully accepts it and drinks, wondering what it all means. 

"My brother, Dean," he says after a moment's silence. "Is he here?"

This time, Amy nods.

"But why would someone steal his body to bring it here?" 

"You still don't get it, do you?" 

He bristles slightly at the look of pity she gives him.

"Well, explain it to me," he says, trying not to sound impatient, then adds, "Please."

"Your brother came here himself. He's one of us."

"Us?" 

"We're the Nightbreed. The last survivors of the tribes of the moon," she says, before she turns to her son. "Jacob. Why don't you show him?"

The boy holds out his hand and Sam takes it without hesitation. Instantly he's pulled into a series of visions that flash past with nauseating speed. Each shows a different period in time, centuries marked by the changing clothes and landscapes. What they all have in common is the violence. Witch-trials, beheadings, terrified, deformed-looking creatures put to death by laughing executioners and angry, baying mobs. Sickened, he lets go of Jacob's hand and he's back in Midian, breathing hard.

"What was that?" he gasps.

Amy beckons for her son, who moves into her embrace. She offers the boy a tender smile, before returning her attention to Sam.

"When God made man he played around with the design. There were ones he considered failures, and he didn't want them around his precious humans. He wanted to annihilate them because he considered them imperfect, but his sister, Amara wouldn't let him."

"God has a _sister?_ " Sam says without thinking. He's silenced by a sharp look from the woman, who continues.

"Amara took exception to his attitude toward his imperfect creations so she sheltered them and, to spite him, started to create some of her own. God didn't like this, so he made his humans fearful of anything they didn't understand, so they would use that fear as a justification to kill. Amara knew she couldn't win against her brother, so she called us here, to Midian, to keep us safe."

"So you're monsters?" he asks. 

"We have many names. Jacob and I are kitsune - a kind of shapeshifter, if you will. You humans love your myths and legends, even though you refuse to believe that they're based in truth. You dream of immortality and yet you try to destroy anything that achieves those dreams. So call us monsters, if it makes you feel better."

He ignores the barb. "But Dean's my brother. How can you say he's like you?"

Amy smiles slightly as she strokes her son's head. "Hasn't he always been different? An outsider?"

"Dean was sick," he counters, "but he wasn't a monster; he never killed anyone."

"It doesn't matter. He's Nightbreed now, or he was until he broke the law."

"No. You're wrong." He stands up, eager to leave this insanity. "I don't know how he survived, but he did and I'm gonna make him see that he _doesn't_ belong here. Where did he go?"

Amy studies him for a moment. "He went to the tabernacle, to try and speak to Amara."

Good. This is good. He just needs to find Dean and they can get out of here. "Will you take me to him?"

"No."

"I will," Jacob says, suddenly animated by the prospect of adventure.

"No, you will not!" Amy replies fiercely. "If you go down there you won't come back. Either of you," she adds, eyeing Sam dangerously.

"Yeah?" he says, "We'll see about that."

He spins on his heel and heads out of the door, more determined than ever to find Dean. He follows the tunnel that leads downward because this feels logical. On the way, he passes chamber after chamber, similar in size to the one he just left behind. The inhabitants, however, couldn't be more different. 

Some, like Amy and Jacob, have a human form, although it's no comfort when he knows what those ordinary facades now conceal. Others, are outwardly fantastical and it's almost impossible not to stare. One is a small girl, maybe nine or ten, who smiles and waves at him - then he catches her reflection in a mirror and sees black pits were her eyes should be and a maw filled with rows of needle-like teeth.

Another doorway reveals a woman who, one blink later is now his double. It's utterly disconcerting to be looking at himself - he stares for a moment longer before he remembers why he's here and forces himself to move on.

The tunnel continues to slope downwards. There are no more chambers and his sense of isolation grows, even though there was no guarantee that he would be safe with the Breed around. There's a low grumble that shakes the ground beneath his feet and he looks down to see he's stood on some grating. When a shadow moves, he steps off it quickly, his back hitting the tunnel wall. 

Too late, he realises that the walls are also different here as a muscular arm snakes around his neck and starts to choke the life from him. The tunnel is essentially a prison cell, containing several hulking Breed who shriek and roar at this unexpected turn of events. He's being lifted off his feet, the bars digging painfully into his back when a tall, wiry man approaches.

"Help me!" he manages to get out through his constricted airway.

The man, seemingly unfazed by the psychotic creatures and the fact that someone is being killed in front of him, steps around Sam, mindful of the grating in the floor. _He's just going to let me die_ , Sam thinks desperately, but he's no air left in his lungs to plead for help again. The man disappears from view.

"Hey, assholes!"

In response to the voice, the grip around his neck disappears. He scrambles clear in time to see the man dive out of the way further down the tunnel, as the rampaging Breed try to get to him instead. Their clawed hands grab wildly as they roar in outrage.

"You okay?" the man asks. “I’m sorry no one warned you about the Berserkers.”

Shaken, Sam massages his throat. Everything is spiralling rapidly out of control - part of him just wants to run, into the light away from the madness of monsters and talk of God's sister, but Dean is more important - has _always_ been more important.

"My brother," he gasps through strangled vocal chords. "Please, just help me find him."

He almost collapses in relief when the tall, wiry man nods his head and says, "This way."

OoOoO

They continue downwards. The man's hesitation increases with every step until he stops altogether. When Sam studies him with a questioning look, the man shrugs. 

"I can't go any further. Amara's chamber is at the end of this corridor."

Before he can turn to leave, Sam grabs his arm. "Thank you for helping me," he says, genuinely touched. "What's your name?"

"I'm Garth," the man replies, trying for a smile that doesn't dent his obvious nervousness. 

"Thank you, Garth."

He watches as Garth nods and then takes a step back. Without warning, the other man drops to his knees, his body trembling slightly. Sam's about to ask what's wrong when he realises that Garth is transforming. It's both fascinating and horrifying to watch as every inch of the man becomes something new. When the change is complete, he's staring down at a large grey wolf who regards him for a moment longer before setting off at a gallop back up the corridor.

A rumble that he feels more than he hears draws him from his stupor. Up ahead, there is a flash that briefly lights up his surroundings, like a thunderstorm is taking place in that one room. He remembers Dean and hurries toward it.

The corridor ends in a vast chamber that sinks even lower, accessed by steps carved directly into the earth. In the centre lies a circular arrangement of pillars, reminding him of Roman ruins. The microcosmic thunderstorm rages on emanating, it seems, from a woman lying within these ruins. Something is compelling him not to look at her, but equally he can't look away. She's beautiful in a solemn, sharp-featured kind of way, but he knows that if he passed her in the street, he wouldn't recognise her. His feet start down the steps as his mind is beginning to scramble, all white noise and static. He's dimly aware of something grabbing his arm.

"Sammy! Don't look!"

The voice, the familiarity of it, halts the retreat of his faculties. He turns lethargically and realises that he's looking at the one person that he's stared death in the face for.

" _Dean?_ "

"Sam!" 

His brother's voice is stronger, more insistent this time even though he looks as if he's barely able to keep himself upright. Holding each other, they stagger up the steps, away from the angry deity. Every step, he can feel himself reclaiming his grip on his mind. As his equilibrium is restored, he takes charge, practically pulling Dean back the way he came, ignoring the stares of the Breed that they pass. None of them try to stop them, a fact he is ridiculously thankful for.

When they reach the top of the last set of stairs that lead out into the cemetery, he can feel Dean starting to resist him. He pulls Dean around to face him, alarmed to see how distressed he looks.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, taking his brother's face in his hands. "Dean, it's okay."

"No," Dean replies, "No, Sammy I can't go."

"Yes, you _can_. Dean, you don't get it, do you? You survived, we _both_ survived because we're a team, we always _have_ been. You don't have to stay here, you're not one of them; it's just another of your delusions, Dean."

He can tell Dean is listening through the emotions warring on his brother's face. Dean's always suffered when he's come to realise that something he has believed in whole-heartedly turns out to be a product of his illness. He senses Dean's on the threshold of a decision, so he adds, "Alastair is still out there and he's dangerous so he needs to be stopped." He strokes Dean's cheek tenderly. "I need you, Dean. I can't do any of this without you."

The statement lingers potently in the air for a moment before Dean nods.

"Okay," Sam says, relieved that he's finally been able to get Dean to see sense. "Let's get out of here."

He pulls open the crypt door and Dean instantly recoils from the light. Sam realises that Dean isn't going to follow without further encouragement. 

"Come on," he says, determined to sound confident. "Just a delusion, remember?"

Reluctantly, Dean follows him out into the graveyard. They move as quickly as they can, cautiously too, since Alastair and his knives might be lying in wait for them. They slip out through the gates and make for the car. Then Sam remembers the keys and changes direction to the small copse where he discovered Meg's body. He almost tells Dean to wait by the car, unsure how his brother will react to seeing Alastair's handiwork, but stops short. He doesn't want Dean alone for a second now that he's finally gotten him back.

His brother follows silently as he rounds the tree where horrors await. Meg's dead, staring eyes bore into him.

"Did he do this?" Dean asks dully from somewhere behind him.

"Yeah." He mentally apologises to the girl again as he retrieves the car keys from her pocket. "This is why we need to make sure he's stopped."

They drive in silence. Ordinarily, he'd be encouraging Dean to talk, to stop his brother becoming a prisoner to his own complicated feelings, but the lack of conversation allows him to plan their next steps. 

First of all, they need to go back to the motel and grab his stuff.

OoOoO

They reach the motel and pull into the parking lot. There's only one other car here and not a single person in sight.

"Where is everyone?" Dean asks even though he doesn't sound remotely interested. He's slumped in the passenger seat wearing Sam's sunglasses. When he moves, Sam notices an unusually-shaped keloid scar on his brother’s arm. It looks like a knife, makes him think of Alastair.

"I dunno," Sam replies, having been wondering the same thing himself. "They're probably all at the rodeo. Come on, I'll be as quick as I can and then we're out of here."

Dean's reluctance is clear as they cross the parking lot together. He's so focuses on his brother that he doesn't notice the car parked across the street and the occupant, who's currently dialling 911.

The inside of the motel is equally quiet. He hurries down the corridor to his room, glancing back every few steps to check Dean is still following him. He's almost there when he realises that his brother has stopped. 

"Dean? What's up?"

The tension is rolling off Dean in waves.

" _Dean?_ "

"I smell blood." 

Hastily, he finds his key and jams it into the lock. He tells himself that his hands aren't shaking as he opens the door and lets it swing wide. The bloodshed he's expecting doesn't materialise; everything is exactly how he left it.

"It's okay." 

He turns back to his brother, who doesn't look remotely comforted by this information. He's pacing like a tiger. 

"Get your stuff," Dean says, gruffly. "I'll keep a look out."

Sam does as he's told. He hadn't brought much and most of it is still in his duffel on the end of his bed so it's not going to take him long. He's grabbing everything he can see when he catches his reflection in the mirror. Given the wearied face that stares back at him, it's hard to believe this whole nightmare only started a few days ago. 

As he's studying himself, his eyes are drawn to the wall, just to the right of the mirror. There's a hole that wasn't there before and plaster on the floor below it, indicating that whatever created the damage, did so from the other side. It's approximately the size of a fist, and instinctively he goes to look through it, even though the feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him that he may not want to see what's there.

Turns out his gut is right.

"Dean!" he yells, relieved to see that his brother is still out in the corridor. "Next door."

His brother straightens up and walks over to the door. Sam watches as Dean prepares to kick it in, before he realises that it's already open and pushes on inside. He ducks back into his room to grab his bag because they need to get out of here _now_.

"Dean? Come on man, we need to go!" 

There's a noise outside so he runs to the end of the corridor where there's a window. Moving the curtain aside carefully he discovers the parking lot is flooding with police cars, cops spilling out before the vehicles can come to a complete stop. 

"Dean, _now!_ "

When there's no response he heads back down the corridor, past his own room to the room next door. The sight he comes upon stops him short.

He recognises the group of people from the previous night - the party goers who'd tried to encourage him to join them. Only now, each one of them is dressed identically in red. They were butchered in this room and then placed back, presumably in whatever position they'd been found in when the killer entered.

"Alastair," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Alastair did this."

His comments fall on deaf ears. Dean is in the centre of the carnage, his back to the door. Sam can see that he's shaking, his hands clutching at his hair.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he asks fearfully. "Dean, the cops are coming, we need to get out of here!"

"No," comes the vehement reply.

"But--"

" _Get out!_ " Dean yells, "I don't want you to see!"

Confused, Sam steps into the room and grabs his brother's arm to try and get him moving. As he pulls Dean around, he comes face to face with a monster, eyes sparking with hellfire, teeth pointed and snarling. Dean has transformed, just like one the denizens of Midian.

" _Go!_ " Dean snarls, the single word growled in a guttural tone that has never belonged to his brother.

Dimly he's aware of a crashing sound, presumably the cops now storming the motel. Sam knows he only has that split second to decide what to do, even though the decision has already been made for him. This Dean has no interest in retreating and can undoubtedly take care of himself.

Sam sprints for the fire exit and escapes on his own.

OoOoO

He has no idea how he manages to get out in time unseen, but he does. From a safe distance he watches as the armed response unit spills into the building, then after some yelling, they emerge in a huddle, guns trained on the person at the centre of that tense formation. 

Dean is cuffed and hunched over, like he's been punched in the stomach several times, which he probably has given the disgusted expressions on the men who surround him. Most disturbingly of all, Dean has blood around his mouth and on his hands. He wants to believe it's the result of police brutality, but something that shifts and slides in the pit of his stomach tells him it's not _Dean's_ blood. It would certainly account why those cops who don't look like they'd cheerfully beat Dean to death, look as if they're about to throw up instead.

He watches as they toss his brother into the back of a van and speed away. In the mix of those left behind, he spots Alastair. The doctor is holding court, pointing at the motel and talking with a solemn expression. Even given everything Sam's seen, it's hard to believe that this respectable-looking man is a cold-blooded killer.

He knows better, obviously, but that knowledge is no comfort at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

HENRIKSEN

He's only been in the deputies' company for just over an hour and he's already convinced that 'asshole' must be in the job description to be law enforcement in Shere Neck. They've travelled in convoy up to Midian and it's clear the men are treating this expedition as a huge joke. When they arrive, they leap from their vehicles, trading stories about screwing women and shooting things like school boys looking to make mischief on a weekend.

The sun is at its zenith as they enter the graveyard. They split into two smaller groups checking the paths to the left and right then reconvening in the central avenue before moving further into the cemetery. They walk, looking and listening for signs of life, which feels somewhat ironic given the location. He thinks of Alastair, the inscrutable doctor at the centre of all this. There's something he can't quite put his finger on about the man, but it's enough to make him wary. He's trying to pin down his thoughts on the matter when Kubrick indicates that he's found something, putting a finger to his lips.

The deputy is edging near to one of the crypts. When he's close enough, he moves, flinging the door open and making a grab for what's inside. Henriksen draws his gun as Kubrick drags a tall, skinny young man out from his hiding place. They grapple for a moment before Kubrick drops him with a well-placed punch to the gut. He follows it up by slamming hard on his back, ensuring the young man doesn't get back up.

"Okay, asshole," Kubrick growls. "You're gonna tell us what the fuck you're doing in here."

When there's no response, Kubrick goes to hit him again. Henriksen catches hold of his arm before he can complete the action, causing the deputy to turn a murderous glare his way.

"Leave him," he says firmly. "Can't you see that something's wrong?"

It's true. The man is now foetal position on the ground, hands covering his face. His body is starting to convulse, tremors that are growing in both frequency and intensity. He's making a keening noise that is equal parts pain and terror.

"What the fuck?" one of the other cops says, Henriksen can't remember his name. They're edging away as smoke starts to rise from the man's body. In front of their eyes, his skin is blackening, charred and burnt by invisible flames. Henriksen is nearest and the man reaches out for him - a plea for salvation even though he's clearly beyond help. Henriksen steps back, out of reach, feeling like a coward as he does it. 

He's about to say something, even though he's no idea _what_ , when the man's body explodes. Ash coats them all as they shield their faces from the blast. The silence that follows is quickly broken by one of the cops throwing up all over his own shoes.

"What the fuck?" Kubrick says, shaking his head in disbelief.

Henriksen looks around and then up. "It was the sun."

"What?"

They're all looking at him now like he's gone insane, which, given the circumstances, doesn't seem entirely unreasonable.

"The sun did this."

No one says anything until Kubrick gives a snort of amusement. "Works for me," he says with a grin, "because that means we've got the perfect weapon, right over our heads."

"Yeah," Henriksen replies dryly, not prepared to share the other man's enthusiasm for destruction. "Just until it goes _down_."

The statement hangs in the air, ominous and threatening. He's about to suggest regrouping when there's a loud explosion from beyond the cemetery walls, quickly followed by another, and another. Thick, black smoke rises in three columns, serenaded by the wail of car alarms. They set off running, arriving at the gates to find their cars well and truly alight.

"What the fuck?" Kubrick yells, like there are no other phrases in his repertoire. "Who the fuck _did_ this?"

Henriksen studies the small group and their anxious faces. The confidence gained at their discovery of a tactical advantage has gone up in smoke along with their transport out of here. Most of all, Henriksen hates that Dr. Alastair actually seems to be onto something.

As the cars are reduced to blackened metal frames, he listens to Kubrick calling the cavalry. The cop ends the call, the shit-eating grin plastered back on his face.

"They're coming," he says, "Sheriff's gonna round up a whole bunch of people to come help."

"Civilians?" Henriksen replies, not sure he's hearing it right.

"If they've got a gun and they wanna shoot some fuckin' weirdoes, then they're more than welcome."

OoOoO

SAM

He stays hidden, watching the comings and goings at the motel. With his car trapped on the parking lot and Dean now in police custody there's nowhere for him to go, and in truth, he's not able to formulate any kind of plan right now. Every time he tries to work out what he should do next, he's interrupted by the mental image of Dean, snarling and _changed_. He thinks of what Amy said, _he's Nightbreed now_ , and for the first time he believes it might be true.

He's heading away from the motel, unsure where he's going, when he notices a car idling on a side street. It's an old car, from the sixties or seventies maybe, funeral black, all chrome and darkened windows. When he passes it, the engine rumbles to life and it starts to roll along next to him on the sidewalk. 

He resettles his duffel, preparing to run, when the window lowers.

"Get in."

" _Please_."

The second voice is Amy's so he grabs the door handle and throws himself onto the backseat. The driver is a man he doesn't recognise, but it's safe to assume that he's Breed like Amy.

"This is Castiel," Amy says, as if she's read his mind. The driver gives a mock salute without turning around.

"What's going on?" he asks as the car accelerates away.

"We need to see your brother," Amy says, her expression solemn.

"You can't; the cops have him."

There's a snort of amusement from Castiel, which he ignores.

"Why?"

"Because our enemies have come to Midian. They've already made their first kill." She holds out her hand, the invitation there. He accepts it and instantly realises that he's looking at the cemetery through Jacob's eyes. He's watching through a grating as cops, and the FBI agent who interviewed him after Dean's death, drag someone from one of the crypts. The bad feeling intensifies as he realises it's Garth. What he witnesses leaves his heart hammering in his chest.

"He helped me," he says, grief - both his and Jacob's - pressing down on him.

"Garth was a good man," Castiel says.

"I - I thought you were immortal?" Sam asks.

"Some of us are," Amy answers, "like the one who turned your brother, but most of the Breed have their vulnerabilities. The sun will hurt some, like Garth and Jacob - others can survive that, but your kind will not stop until we're all wiped out."

"So you're innocent?" he replies, feeling somewhat defensive. "Did my brother asked to be turned? Somehow I doubt it."

"Hey," Castiel says, a note of warning in his voice.

"It's true." Amy studies him evenly. "Some of the Breed, like the Alpha who made your brother, find it hard to let go of the old ways when the opportunity presents itself, but we don't deserve to be destroyed."

"Is Jacob okay?" he asks. 

"He's staying hidden."

"So why do you need to see Dean?"

He watches Amy and Castiel exchange glances. Unsurprisingly, it's Amy who fills in the blanks.

"The prophecies speak of a Breed who will rise to be Midian's saviour when the end times are upon us, by receiving the Mark of Cain. Before he left, your brother went to speak to Amara, who made Midian. We want to know if she gave him the Mark, or at least told him something that could help."

"A mark?" he says, thinking of his brother following their flight from Midian. "Like an actual _mark?_ "

"You saw something?" Amy asks and it's impossible not to hear the hope in her voice.

Sam nods. "He had a scar on his arm, like, uh, like a knife. He didn't have that before."

More glances. 

"Cop shop here we come," Castiel announces gleefully, as he guns the engine and makes for the police department.

"How we gonna get him out?" Sam asks, doubtfully.

Castiel looks over his shoulder and offers him a broad grin that definitely borders on psychotic. 

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Sammy. It _definitely_ won't be a problem."

OoOoO

DEAN

He's hustled into a cell and the first blow lands before the door is even closed. Punches rain down on him until he's on the floor, cuffed hands trying to protect his head. Then boots join the fray. There are five police officers crammed into the tiny windowless cell and they're all keen to have a turn. The blood is no longer around his mouth, but it's like they can still see it there and they hit harder as a result. Eventually they stop and one of them bends to uncuff his hands. The others file out of the cell, but not before a couple of them take the opportunity to spit on him first. The cell echoes with their laughter before the door clangs shut.

He makes no attempt to get up, even though his body doesn't really hurt, in the same way that Alastair's knife didn't do any real damage. Through the years of his illness, he'd always assumed that not being able to feel would be a blessing, but now he just feels empty. Whatever they want to do to him, he'll let them. If they find a way to kill him, better yet. 

He remembers the possibilities following his baptism, the hope afforded to him by his new beginnings, the _power_ at the realisation that Alastair would control him no longer. Then he thinks of how he felt, surrounded by all that blood, the desire to taste it overwhelming him until.... He pictures Sam, everything his brother saw. Shame rises up, tasting bitter in his mouth. Hopefully his brother has left town, never to return and the Shere Neck police force can do with him what they will.

Time passes, even though it's impossible to tell how much. He's sitting on the bench when the bolts are slid back and a portly man enters the cell, accompanied by one of the deputies who beat him earlier. The officer is pointing his gun at him with an expression that says he's trying to show he's not afraid, but failing miserably.

"Okay, freak, the doctor's just gonna check you out." A curving knife-like smile crosses his lips. "We'd _hate_ anyone to accuse us of police brutality."

The cop gives the medic a pointed stare before using his gun to gesture that he should start the examination.

Dean studies the doctor as he approaches. The poor man is shaking as he takes hold of his wrist and tries to take a pulse, so he turns his gaze on the deputy instead.

"Don't fuckin' try anything, you hear?"

Having presumably failed at finding a pulse, the doctor puts on his stethoscope to listen for chest sounds. He repositions the resonator a couple of times, before taking a decisive step back, almost falling over the cop in the process.

"What the hell you doin'?" the deputy snaps.

"No pulse," the doctor stammers.

" _What?_ "

"The man is _dead_."

OoOoO

SHERIFF WALKER

The situation is starting to give him a headache.

When the Dean Winchester fiasco first rolled into town, complete with FBI agents and tales of multiple murders, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to raise his profile a little, give that asshole Quinn over in Dwyer something to chew on next time they were at the sheriffs' conference.

Now, he wishes he'd never heard the name Dean Winchester, or Dr. Alastair, for that matter. The latter is currently taking up valuable real estate in his office with that perpetually superior expression on his face. Asshole. Maybe he'll remind him that if he'd been a better doctor, Dean Winchester wouldn't have resorted to cold-blooded murder on nine separate occasions.

Then there's the FBI. Grudgingly, he has to admit that Henriksen isn't as big a dick as he'd always assumed an FBI agent would be, but it's still interference that he could do without. At least, Henriksen's over at Midian, running that quack doctor's fool errand, leaving him to the glory of the press conference where he will announce to the world that they've re-captured Winchester.

Speaking of which... He's checking his appearance in the small shaving mirror he keeps in his desk drawer when the door bursts open. Deputy Sheridan enters at speed, sees Dr. Alastair and says, "Sir, can I have a quick word with you. Outside."

Sheridan talks and he listens. He turns his fury on the doctor who examined Winchester, who is also here. The man nods, confirming everything his deputy has just told him. Walker grabs the doctor by the arm and drags him into the office. Alastair looks up from the file he's reading, his expression infuriatingly mild.

"Problem?" the doctor asks.

"Problem? _Problem?_ I have no fuckin' clue what's going on around here, except I've now got people telling me there's a dead man in my cell."

"What did you do to him?" Alastair enquires.

The powder keg ignites. Walker slams his hand down on the desk, incensed by the accusation. 

"I don't mean lying down dead, my friend! I mean walkin' around in my fuckin' cell dead! So what have you got to say about that?"

He never finds out as the phone on his desk starts to ring. Livid, he snatches up the receiver and barks, "Walker!"

It's Kubrick, yelling and bawling and generally not making a whole lot of sense.

"Deputy," he snaps, eyeballing Alastair who can obviously hear that something's going on and, given that he was the one to suggest they check out Midian, looks suitably smug. He swears if that fucker so much as _breathes_ any kind of _I told you so_ , he's going to shoot him right now. "Calm the fuck down and tell me what's going on."

Kubrick calms the fuck down, but what he's saying still sounds utterly ridiculous. That said, there are enough people, including the apparently sane Agent Henriksen, who are vouching for him, so it can't be bullshit or the workings of an overactive imagination. Enough. 

He ends the call, promising reinforcements to his harried deputy, before yelling for Sheridan, who's still hovering outside.

"Deputy Sheridan," he says, awash with the satisfaction that this shit is going to get sorted, _today_. "Round up as many men as you can; make phone calls - all vacation time is cancelled, as of this moment." He moves to his gun safe and keys in the code. "Is LeGrange still in a cell?"

"Uh, I think so."

"Good. He's coming too."

Sheridan frowns. "But he's a drunk. And a fraud."

"But he's still a preacher," Walker counters impatiently, loading guns and finding homes for them about his person. "If the doc here is right, we're going up against the devil himself. Don't you want a man of God on the team?"

"I guess." Sheridan turns to leave.

"I'm not done," Walker snaps. "You need to call Lee Bender. Tell him The Sons of the Free are needed."

This time he lets the deputy leave. He finishes arming himself, smiling inside at the thought of Alastair not quite understanding what's going on. He's not about to put the other man out of his misery - Dr. Asshole will have to _ask_. 

"Who are 'The Sons of the Free'?" the doctor says eventually. _Good boy_.

"The town has a healthy survivalist community - mainly the usual conspiracy nuts and all-out whack jobs. We tolerate them with their little war games and their anti-government ramblings, so long as they keep their crazy to themselves. A few years back, they formed The Sons of the Free as a local militia, just in case Shere Neck was ever at the epicentre of the Apocalypse." He gives the doctor a broad smile. "I think this sounds right up their alley, don't you?"

He heads to the door. 

"Come on, Doc. You can have a front row seat for judgement day."

It's not an offer and Alastair appears to realise this. Walker claps him on the shoulder, deliberately too hard to be friendly.

"Let's get this show on the road."

OoOoO

SAM

Castiel parks the car around the corner from the police department. They don't want to advertise their arrival, but it turns out they don't need to worry, as the building is a hive of activity and it's clear no one has time to observe the newcomers. They watch as trucks arrive, filled with weapons and excitable men who talk and laugh like they've come to a party. Eventually, the trucks leave in convoy with the remaining police cars and silence descends.

"We need to hurry," Amy urges. "They're on their way to Midian."

Sam nods, still not sure how they're going to just walk into a police department and leave with his brother. He watches the last of the trucks disappear around the corner.

"What's the plan?" he asks, turning when he realises that Amy and Castiel are no longer next to him.

"No plan," Castiel grins, as he walks across the street toward the front doors, Amy slightly behind him. "Come on!"

Sam hurries from his hiding place, more convinced than ever that Castiel is insane.

"Stay behind me," the other man instructs as he starts to scratch on the frosted glass panel in the door. After almost half a minute, a voice can be heard from inside.

"Department's closed. You need to go elsewhere or call 911 if it's an emergency."

Castiel keeps scratching until a shadow appears through the glass.

"Did you not hear me?" the voice says, sounding irritated. "I said--"

He doesn't get chance to repeat the message as Castiel smashes both hands through the glass and grabs the cop's hair, pulling down to make contact with his own head. The other man drops to the floor, unconscious. Castiel reaches in and unlocks the door so they can enter the building.

The smashing glass and shouting has brought another cop out, heralded by wailing alarms. He sees his colleague, draws his weapon and fires. Sam watches Castiel's body jerk as the bullet hits him. He keeps moving forward as if nothing has happened and suddenly, Sam finds his view of the scene obscured by a majestic set of wings that unfurl and fill the waiting area. 

The cop with the gun is similarly stunned, and Castiel is upon him before he can fire again. He quickly follows his colleague into unconsciousness. No one else appears as the alarms continue to sound. Sam follows Castiel and Amy through the building to the cells. The heavy door leading down there is closed.

"Open up!" Castiel says cheerfully, banging on the metal.

"You need to leave," a voice replies from the other side of the barrier. Sam can hear the nerves. He's surprised when Amy steps forward and places both hands on the door. Smoke starts to appear and he suddenly realises that she's moving _through the door_. He hears her say, "Please, I don't want to hurt you," in a seductively low voice.

There's a cry of surprise followed by a thump and then the sound of the bolts being thrown back. Castiel grins at the cop slumped on the floor, smoke seeping from between his lips.

"That's what happens when you kiss strange girls. No offence," Castiel adds quickly, looking back at Amy. She ignores her companion and Sam finds himself under her solemn gaze.

"Your turn," is all she says.

He lets himself into the cell, eyes needing a moment to adjust to the poor light. Dean is slumped on the hard concrete bench and doesn't look up. The wailing alarms suddenly fall silent.

"What are you doing here, Sammy?" Dean says, sounding utterly defeated.

"I've come to get you," he replies. "Midian needs you."

"Let it burn," Dean growls, his voice somewhere between anger and tears. "I'm not leaving."

Sam crouches down, determined to make eye contact. "If you stay, they'll find a way to kill you."

"Good! They know the world would be a better place without me in it, so let them do their worst."

"No!" Sam cries, angry now. "You're wrong, Dean. Everything that's happened to you has happened because you're supposed to save Midian from being destroyed! There are children there, _innocent_ children. Do they deserve to die just because they're not human?"

He reaches across, drawing strength from Dean's solidness. He ignores the fact that his brother's skin is cold to the touch. "This," he says, indicating the scar on Dean's arm. "You were given this because Midian's god deemed you worthy. She believes in you, and so do I."

"But I'm ashamed of what I am," Dean says, tears sliding down his cheeks. 

" _Hey_." Finally, Dean looks up at him, so he presses on. "I love you, Dean - I've _always_ loved you, even when you couldn't love yourself."

He thumbs the wetness from his brother's face.

"I'm not afraid of you, Dean," he says, defiantly. "I want you to show me."

"No--"

" _Please._ "

Eventually, Dean nods. Sam watches intently as his brother exhales, smoke blurring the transformation that occurs before his eyes. When it's complete, he studies Dean's new face, monstrous and changed, but still inherently Dean's. He reaches up and touches the flesh once more, even though his brother won't look at him.

"Doesn't change anything, Dean. You're still my brother and I still love you. Don't be ashamed of who you are." 

Now Dean does look up. 

"You're meant for great things, Dean, but you've got to come back to Midian."

Slowly, minutely, Dean nods. 

"Okay," he says, reaching out and touching Sam's face reverently. "Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Dead of Night - Chapter 6**

 

ALASTAIR

Sheriff Walker talks the entire ride over to Midian. If he's not barking orders into his cell, he's berating the unfortunate Roy LeGrange, currently occupying the backseat of the patrol car with him. The self-professed faith healer is currently clutching his bible, trying to find appropriate passages, which must be difficult given the speed Walker's deputy is driving at and the fact that he's still drunk.

Alastair is happy to sit quiet throughout the sheriff's tirades. His hand rests atop his briefcase, occasionally stroking the soft leather almost reverently. Inside rests his beloved mask and six of his favourite knives. If Walker thinks he's just here to watch, then he's sorely wrong.

 

KUBRICK

Once he's over the initial shock of monsters being an actual _thing_ , he starts to loosen up and enjoy himself a little. He's always enjoyed hunting, and shooting things that explode in a shrieking, gooey mess remind him of hours spent playing _Resident Evil_. He's shot things with horns and things with hooves. He's forced things that look like the bastard spawn of Freddy Krueger into the daylight and watched as the sun took them apart. His conscience made a brief appearance when he killed a beautiful young woman, only for her to revert to an old hag as she died. Truly, they're doing God's work.

He rounds a corner and comes face to face with an ordinary-looking man in a suit and black wool overcoat. The man sees him and smiles.

"Well, hello there, officer. Is there anything I can help you with?" 

Kubrick detects a British accent.

"What the fuck are you?" he says, levelling his gun at the man, disconcerted by how calm the other man is when it's clear he's about to die. "You look like an insurance salesman."

"Crossroads demon, actually," the man says, affably. "I'm Crowley."

"I couldn't give a fuck if you're the queen of England."

"Well I'm not, which is frankly a shame for you because I'm _much_ worse." 

Crowley is still smiling, but he blinks and his eyes are now solid red. He opens his mouth, and red smoke pours out. Panicked, Kubrick squeezes the trigger but the smoke forces itself down his throat, sending the shot wide. He becomes aware of someone talking to him, from _inside_. The voice laughs mockingly, and he's suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to put his gun to his temple and pull the trigger, even though the rational part of him is screaming not to. The voice grows insistent, so he does what it says, just to shut the fucking thing up.

He's dead before he hits the floor. The red smoke then jumps back to the suited man, whose eyes become human once more. Crowley glances down and shakes his head.

"Insurance salesman," he mutters to himself as he steps over Kubrick's body and continues on his way.

 

ROY LEGRANGE

He sees Midian and sobers up pretty damn quickly. He can take being called a drunk, but the accusation that he's a fraud is utterly offensive. So what if people want to give him money when he's laid his hands on them? They're just grateful for his help. Ten minutes observing what's going on and he knows he's found his true calling. This isn't God's doing and it's up to him to educate those holding that misguided belief. 

With new-found sobriety and confidence in his righteousness, he tries to appeal to the men, starting with that awful Lee Bender. He tells them that they're on holy ground and shouldn't be killing and destroying things - and worse - in God's name, but they laugh in his face. One of them hits him with the butt of his weapon. Once he's picked himself up out of the dirt and is scurrying for safety, he realises the blow has given him something of an epiphany:

Fleecing sick folk and old people is _infinitely_ less stressful than practising genuine religion, and from now on, he's going to stick to what he does best.

 

SHERIFF WALKER

It's no exaggeration to say that he's seen some seriously crazy shit today. First, he's been instrumental in apprehending a serial killer, caught - no word of a lie - in the same room as his latest victims, their blood dripping off his chin.

Then he's reliably informed that the perpetrator is an honest-to-God, motherfucking _zombie_ , and, to top this batshit insane day off, he gets confirmation that Midian is full of _goddamned monsters_ who explode when they see sunlight. 

He's hacked and slashed his way through Satan's army and he tells himself that using fire and explosives to force the monsters out of hiding was totally his idea. Not that fucking hillbilly fucker, Lee Bender. He pictures Bender and the rest of his inbred family members receiving some kind of recognition for going head to head with the devil himself and redoubles his efforts. 

Through the smoke he spots another one of these fucking _things_. This one appears human, all except the head, which looks like something out of a child's attempt to draw 'the bad man' for its therapist. It's carrying a knife in each hand.

"Hey, asshole!" he yells. The monster turns and walks toward him. "Don't come any closer!"

"Now now, Sheriff Walker," it says pleasantly. "There's no need to be rude."

"How the fuck do you know my name?"

"A good question," the mask replies. Without warning, he flings one of the knives and Walker can only watch as it hits his chest with unnerving accuracy. "And here's your answer."

He can feel his life slipping away as the monster looms over him, pulling off the mask and revealing the sweaty, beaming face of Dr. Alastair. And even though he doesn't really want to die, he knows he's going on his final journey with the satisfaction that he was right all along about Alastair being a complete and utter _asshole_.

 

HENRIKSEN

The word 'apocalypse' has been used a lot over the last few hours, but he's starting to believe it might not be an exaggeration. Mob rule has taken over, fuelled in no small measure by the so-called 'Sons of the Free' and their whooping shoot first, don't bother with questions mentality. The Shere Neck police department are totally on board with this as a strategy, so he's basically one man seeing this for what it is - cold-blooded murder.

The baying mob have already managed to shake loose some of Midian's inhabitants and killed them before they could attack. Or surrender, because no one appears to want to consider that that could be a possibility. He tries to intervene at that point, but the juggernaut of bloodlust is already running out of control. This will be a massacre, but he'll have no part in it.

The darkness is almost complete, so some bright spark has decided they could speed up the inhabitants' egress by pouring gasoline down gratings and through any openings they can find. No one appears to even care that they're destroying a _graveyard_ \- something that should be sacrosanct to these God-fearing Christians.

Thick, black smoke quickly engulfs the cemetery. Under this cover, he escapes from the crowd and spots some terrified-looking creatures cowering behind some headstones. Checking he's not being followed, he hurries over, hands raised in surrender. His brain catalogues all the fantastical things he can see that _just should not be_. 

"Please," he says, "let me help you."

He's relieved when they follow him. Earlier, someone had used dynamite to bring down parts of the outer wall so he heads for one of these newly-made gaps. As they run, a small boy falls and is forgotten by the other escapees. Henriksen doubles back and scoops him into his arms.

Beyond the cemetery walls, there's no sign of the others that he helped so there's no one to give the kid to and he can't just leave him here to be spotted by one of the psychopaths currently laying waste to his home. He's trying to decide what to do when, from nowhere, a large black Chevrolet speeds toward him through the wall of smoke and skids to a stop just ahead of him. The doors fly open and the occupants spill out.

He knows nothing should surprise him anymore, but when he's greeted by Sam Winchester, quickly followed by his dead brother, his knees almost give out. The latter's face confirms that he's a child of Midian too. 

"Jacob!" Sam shouts, addressing the boy in his arms. A woman is suddenly there too, her expression fearful.

"It's okay," the boy replies, indicating to Henriksen that he should be set down. "He helped me."

The woman claims the child, embracing him soundly. "Thank you."

"You need to go," Dean says to her. His voice, barely more than a growl, resonates with anger. He never knew Dean Winchester before, but as he watches the interaction, he knows that the change is more than just physical. Alastair described him as an anxious, troubled man, plagued by self-doubt. That man definitely isn't here now. 

"But Midian," the woman protests. 

"We'll deal with it," Dean says, forcefully, before he glances at Sam to confirm what he's saying is true. "But you and Jacob need to get to safety. Go, we'll find you, I promise."

The woman studies him for a moment, then she nods. Both her and the boy transform into small fox-like creatures who then bound away into the night. Henriksen watches it all in awe.

"What now?" Sam asks, and even though the question isn't aimed at him, he answers.

"They're destroying the place. They're going to keep going until there's nothing left. I'm sorry; I tried to stop them."

Another man exits the car, his face vaguely familiar. Then it hits him: it's the man from the hospital back in Kansas, who died shortly after his encounter with Dean. A man who stripped the skin off his own back as he raved about wings. Wings that are now on display, black as the encroaching night.

The man looks as if he wants to kill someone, and in this small group, it's obvious who his choice will be. Maybe his death will be a penance for being unable to stop the devastation.

"No, Castiel," Dean says, catching his companion's arm before he can make good on the threat that blazes in his eyes. "He wants to help, so he can help."

It's clear who has command of this army. The winged man acquiesces reluctantly, but the murderous look remains in his eyes. 

"So what's the plan?" Castiel asks.

"Simple," Dean replies. "We save as many Breed as we can. Anyone who tries to stop you - kill them."

Henriksen watches as Castiel steps forward and clasps Dean's hand. He then turns to Sam and claps him on the shoulder. 

"Stay safe, boys," he says, before his wings stretch and he takes flight. Henriksen stands, transfixed by the sight until he realises that the brothers are speaking to each other.

"Sam, you know there's no guarantee that I'll make it out of here." Dean gestures to a livid-looking scar on his arm. It's probably a trick of the light, but it almost looks as if it's glowing. "The Mark will help - I can _feel_ it giving me strength, but it's also a curse. If I have to destroy myself in order to save the Breed then so be it. I brought this on them - it's up to me to put it right."

"Okay, but I'm helping."

Dean looks unhappy, but he nods anyway. With their conversation over, they turn their collective attention on him.

"You need to get out of here, too," Dean says in a voice that brooks no protest.

"But I feel responsible," he argues.

"You can't help if you're dead. The Breed will try to kill you and so will the assholes you came with if they realise you're trying to help us. If you want to make amends, make sure no one believes the crazy stories that'll come out of here today. As far as you're concerned, monsters don't exist."

Henriksen nods; he owes them this, at least. 

"You have my word," he says, offering his hand.

Dean shakes it and then turns back to his brother.

"You ready?" Dean asks. 

"Yeah."

And then they're gone, swallowed up by smoke and flames. He spots a police cruiser, keys still in the ignition and takes it before anyone can stop him. He needs to get back to Shere Neck and start working on a coverup, even though he's got no idea how he's going to spin this.

At least he's got the drive to think about it.

 

DEAN

They manage to make it underground together before it becomes apparent that they'd be more effective if they split up. Grudgingly, he lets Sam go; his brother has a gun and a knife that they'd appropriated off the dead bodies they'd passed, and although he hates the idea of his brother having to use them, this is war. Sam focusses on helping the Breed get free of the cemetery, while he heads deeper into Midian to find others. Tremors move the ground beneath his feet. Many of the passages are empty, and he's hoping most of the Breed have gotten away already. Then he hears a voice and he follows it to the source.

"We need to stay down here! This is our home!"

He rounds the corner and finds the prophet ministering to a large assembly of frightened-looking Breed.

"No!" he yells. "We need to get out! If you stay here you'll be slaughtered!"

The prophet rounds on him. "Then _so be it_. I have seen the prophesy - it's Amara's will to destroy Midian."

"Not with her children in it!" he counters angrily. "Amara loves you all; she'll destroy Midian when everyone is out, but to get out, we need to fight."

The prophet looks at him sadly. "We're not fighters--"

"But we _are_ the Nightbreed." He looks around the assembled group. "They had the advantage in the daylight, but the night is ours so let's take it back. What about the Berserkers?"

"They're uncontrollable. They answer only to Amara."

"Fine," Dean says. "Let them out. We'll soon see if she wants us to live."

Eventually, the prophet nods. "I'll release them."

Once he's gone, Dean turns his attention to getting the Breed to leave. Some will die, certainly, but his conscience will be eased if they died trying to escape, rather than just waiting to be slaughtered.

 

BENNY LAFITTE

It's impossible to miss the destruction going on overhead.

"We started this," he says to his companion.

The alpha looks like he's about to protest, before he sighs in weary resignation. "I only wanted some meat."

"You and your goddamned hunger."

"It's easy for you to say; you don't remember the old times, when we moved amongst the naturals and had all the meat we wanted."

"There'll be no more times _full stop_ , if we don't get our asses up there and help out."

"You're right." The alpha stands and brushes imaginary dust off of his suit. "It's a while since we've had any real entertainment."

Benny grins, his teeth subtly rearranging in his mouth. "Now you're talkin’. Let's go."

 

SAM

Despite being human, the Breed seem to instinctively know that he's on their side. He's able to lead them to safety, encouraging them to flee and seek shelter, reassuring them that they will be reunited with others who have gone before. He's heading back to the catacombs, aware that he needs to find another gun, when he happens upon a familiar face.

"Hello, Sam," Alastair says. The doctor is standing with the body of Sheriff Walker at his feet. "We do keep running into each other here, don't we?" 

Pulse quickening, he glances around, unsure where to go. He's near a crypt; maybe the doctor won't risk following him down there. His prediction unfortunately proves incorrect as the thump of footsteps on the stairs sound behind him.

 

DEAN

Castiel appears so he leaves the angel in charge of the rescue effort and heads deeper underground. There's no sign of the Berserkers yet, so he follows that tunnel, praying that the prophet has been good to his word and has let them loose.

What he finds is the young man's body slumped on the floor, yards from the door to their cell, a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. There's a cop too, grinning and gloating as he holds a large rifle at his side. The cop's grin fades as he recognises the man that's just stepped into the passageway. 

"You're... You're him!" 

Seeing the prophet fuels his rage, and he's on top of the cop before he can raise his rifle. The man's neck snaps so easily. There's no satisfaction in the kill, but at least he might have saved others. In the prophet's hand is the key to the Berserkers' prison. He takes it and unlocks the door.

The psychotic Breed throw open the door and there's a moment where time seems to stand still, presumably as they weigh up whether to attack him or not. He thinks of his trip to Amara's chamber. She'd told him he was destined to save the Breed; surely he's not going to be the Berserkers' first kill?

Then time restarts and they rush past him up the passageway. Relieved, he watches them go. At least they've got a fighting chance now. 

 

ALASTAIR

He's well aware he's in the freaks' lair, but the chance to kill Sam Winchester is too delicious to resist. He throws his smaller knife, but the ground shudders and Sam stumbles, causing the knife to embed itself in the wall. Missing always makes him angry because he _never_ misses, and this isn't the time to add to his very short list of failures. He grabs the knife as he passes and continues the pursuit. Down into the bowels of the earth they go. There's no time to take in the labyrinthine surroundings because if he loses sight of Sam then it's another opportunity missed and this failure will not be tolerated.

 

DEAN

He's making his way back through the tunnels when he's slammed by a vision and a voice speaking to him urgently. It's Jacob, the little shapeshifter. His expression is solemn and his voice is crystal clear, even though he knows the boy is now miles away with his mother and other Breed. 

"You need to help Sam! The bad man is chasing him!"

There's a plethora of bad men here, and yet he knows exactly who Jacob means.

 _Where is he?_ he thinks. The vision of Jacob dissolves into one of Sam, running and hiding through Midian's crumbling passageways. Alastair is closing in on him; Sam looks tired. He recognises where Sam is and sets off at speed. 

He hears Alastair before he sees him. Sam has fallen; the ground is unstable, as Amara's wrath continues to take Midian apart at the seams. The doctor looms over him, evidently savouring Sam's defeated expression. He's no longer wearing the mask. 

"Hey, doc."

Alastair turns, knife poised, ready to kill. His expression morphs on seeing Dean from one of triumph to a more guarded look. Sam may be tired, but he's not suicidal, and taking advantage of the momentary distraction, he kicks Alastair hard in his leg, so his weight cannot support him. Sam rolls away, but Alastair manages to slice his arm before he's out of reach.

Dean's already there though, before Alastair can do worse. He pounces on the fallen man, clawed hands going to his throat.

"Sam! Get out of here," he growls, wanting his brother as far away from this maniac as possible.

"But--"

" _Just go!"_

Sam fortunately does as he's told, leaving he and Alastair alone. He squeezes the man's throat, taking satisfaction in the way the doctor's eyes bulge.

"You convinced me I was a monster," he spits angrily. "I was sick and you put ideas in my head so you could do what you wanted without being caught." He grins suddenly. "It's kinda ironic that by doing that, you turned me into an _actual monster._ "

"I can help you though, Dean," Alastair manages through lips that are rapidly turning blue. "Make you into the man you want to be. You should do it for Sam."

"Too late," he replies, increasing the pressure. He watches intently as the light fades from Alastair's eyes, holding on for longer than necessary, wanting to be certain that the other man is dead. Killing Alastair feels like some kind of closure for the part of him that once was human. To the new, altered Dean Winchester it's just another death in a war between the Breed and the naturals - a war which he started.

With that thought in mind, he knows where he needs to go. Before he can leave, Castiel appears. His solemn expression gives way to delight at seeing Alastair's body. 

"Sam sent me," he explains. "He thought you might need some help. I knew you'd have it all in hand."

"What about the Berserkers?" he asks, not prepared to waste another minute talking about Alastair. 

"Crazy fuckers," Castiel confirms. "But definitely handy to have on the team. It's pretty much over up there."

"Good." He turns to leave. The ground shakes again.

"Where are you going?" Castiel asks.

"To see Amara."

"Why?"

"To tell her to stop; that she doesn't need to destroy Midian."

"You can't reason with an angry god," Castiel says, reminding him of the prophet's words when he'd wanted to negotiate Sam's freedom and to score his own permission to stay here.

"I can try," he counters, before he pauses. "Get Sam away from here and tell him I love him and appreciate everything he's done for me if I don't make it back."

The angel looks as if he wants to protest, but he nods all the same.

"Hope you've got her some flowers," is all he says.

OoOoO

With the war now over, he wants to see Amara, who gave him the Mark of Cain and told him he would be the Breed's saviour, to beg her to spare Midian. 

The tabernacle is empty, save for Amara in the centre of the chamber. The ground continues to shake, sending large chunks of earth crashing down around them. She watches him approach, her expression curious and yet pleased.

"Why have you come?" she asks.

"Our enemies are being driven back. There's no need for you to destroy Midian."

"Dean," she says, smiling. "Midian was already unmade from the moment you received the Mark of Cain; maybe even before that - from the moment you became one of my children."

"But you gave me the Mark to help me defeat them."

"I never gave you the Mark. It chose you because it thought you were worthy."

"But I won't be worthy if the Breed lose their home because of me!"

"Dean. The Breed existed for centuries out in the natural world, and they will again until you can unite them." She gestures to the scar on his arm. "As long as you're charged with fixing what you've broken, the Mark will stay."

"What about you?" he asks, his view of her now partly obscured by falling earth and masonry. 

"You don't need to worry about me," she says with smile. "Just concentrate on the task in hand."

The scar on his arm throbs like a living thing. Pressure is building in his ears and behind his eyes until he thinks he's going to explode. Then everything disappears in a flash of cold, white light.

 

SAM

There's no one left in Midian now, yet Dean is nowhere to be found. He's running up and down the cemetery's avenues, stepping over dead bodies when Castiel appears. 

"Where's Dean?" he demands.

"Gone below. To see Amara."

"I need to go to him," Sam says, starting toward one of the crypts. Castiel catches his arm.

"You can't. Dean told me to get you out of here; in case Amara won't listen."

"What? No! I'm not leaving without him."

The earth beneath their feet lurches horribly. 

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, taking advantage of the momentary distraction to grab Sam in a bear hug and lift him up into the sky. The timing gives them both a bird's eye view as bright, white light starts to break through cracks in the ground. 

"Dean!" Sam yells into the chaos. "Where are you?" 

The light engulfs everything below them. The ground is heaving, sending mausoleums tumbling into the abyss. He struggles in Castiel's grip, but it's half-hearted since he doesn't want to fall to his death. As suddenly as it started, the destruction abruptly subsides.

"Let me go," he yells as they land on the grass, a safe distance from the ruined cemetery walls. "I need to find Dean!"

"Sam," Castiel says, "you can't go back there."

"But he's my brother!"

"I know, but he knew he might not get out. He wanted me to tell you that he loves you."

Sam closes his eyes, the fight in him all gone. If Dean is gone then all of this was for nothing. When he opens his eyes again, something catches his attention over Castiel's shoulder. He smiles.

"Well, he can tell me himself, can't he?"

Castiel follows his gaze to the twisted, broken tangle of the tall iron gates. A man is walking toward them, through the smoke and flames. Although his expression is solemn, there's a determination in his stride that speaks of battles, both past and future, that need to be fought. To Sam's relief, there's not a scratch on him. Castiel stares, mouth slightly agog.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says as he approaches. The livid-looking scar is still on his arm, but he seems different, like he finally understands that he has some kind of purpose. "I think it's time we got out of here, don't you?"


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 

DEAN

Midian is gone.

The fire and the Berserkers have destroyed anything that remained, both of the graveyard and the catacombs below it. On the hill above the cemetery they stand and watch, even though the last of the Breed are gone and their attackers have either fled or are dead. Castiel returned earlier to tell him where some of the displaced Breed have gone before taking to the skies again, to continue the search for any stragglers. Many are still unaccounted for, having fled to every corner of the earth. 

For the first time since this whole situation began, it's just him and Sam.

"Thank you for believing in me," he says, as they stare at the smouldering remains.

"Any time, big brother," Sam replies with a smile. "So, what's next?"

And the moment he was dreading is suddenly upon them. 

"Sam..." Dean starts, and that one word, delivered so hesitantly is enough to tell his stupidly smart brother that there's trouble on the horizon.

"Sam. It's my fault that the Breed have lost Midian. I'm responsible for them, for finding them and uniting them in a new home. I need to right the wrongs I've done." He meets Sam's gaze and tries to smile. "I swear to you though, when I'm done, I'll come and find you."

He's unprepared for Sam's fury.

"Oh, that's great. When will that be, Dean? Months? Years? _Decades?_ I'll be old and grey and in some care home and you'll turn up, looking exactly the same as you do now and say, 'come on, Sammy, I'm done; we can be together now!’"

Sam's right, obviously, but what can he say to mitigate his brother's hurt? It's not him who comes up with the solution. 

"You could change me, Dean; make me like you."

The idea horrifies him. Although he's reconciled himself with being one of the Nightbreed, the thought of deliberately turning Sam is abhorrent. He's searching for the way to tell his brother he won't do it when Sam sighs heavily.

"Just go, Dean. You're right; I can go and make a life for myself if you're not around. Go and help the Breed. I'll be fine on my own."

He's taken aback by the vehemence, but everything Sam's saying is true. One day... one day maybe Sam will see how it was for the best. He starts to walk away.

"Dean."

He turns because Sam's voice sounds strange. With his back turned his brother has found a knife from somewhere and he's wielding it dangerously.

"I lied. I can't make a life without you, Dean. I don't want to. If you won't take me with you then it ends here."

Before he can react, Sam takes the knife and plunges it into his own chest. His face contorts in pain as he drops to his knees, red spilling down his front. Dean runs, catching him before he can face plant in the dirt. 

"I'm sorry," Sam gasps. "Make me proud, big brother. I believe in you."

His eyes flutter closed. Dean studies the man in his arms as the tears threaten. Grief and desperation hit him in relentless waves and before he can reconsider what he's doing, he's leaning over and biting his brother's neck. Better Nightbreed than nothing at all. 

"Come on, come on, come on," he tells the body, waiting for some sign that Sam hasn't left him really. "Please, Sammy, I was wrong. I need you."

Minutes pass. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed with pain. He tells himself that Sam's body isn't growing cooler and hugs it tighter. He tells himself that despite the fact that he wrought destruction on an entire city below ground, _this_ will always be his greatest mistake. He tells himself it's what he deserves.

"Hey, Dean."

His eyes fly open to see Sam looking up at him, face terrifyingly pale, but smiling nonetheless.

"Oh, thank god," Dean says hugging him tightly. "I thought I'd lost you."

"We're a team," Sam replies. "I couldn't let you do it alone. I'm sorry I forced your hand, but--"

"Hey, it's okay." He smiles. "There's no one I'd rather share immortality with."

He helps Sam to his feet and together they walk toward the car that Castiel has left for them. There's mud on its sleek, black bodywork, but the silver chrome glitters in the moonlight, and somehow the vehicle just feels _right_. They need to find the scattered Breed and a new home for them that will keep them safe from their enemies. He thinks of Castiel and Amy and Jacob and all the others who trust the prophesies that say he will lead them to a new Midian and he vows to himself that he won't let them down.

Sam opens the trunk to find it empty before he realises that there's a secret compartment in the floor. Opening this reveals some weapons and various other necessities for long days spent on the road, trying to track down the missing Breed as well as finding somewhere for them to go.

"Come on," Dean says, glancing over at Sam. "We've got work to do."

 

**End**


End file.
